A Gentlemen's Coup
by SkitzySyko
Summary: AU/Future!Fic. Fear and greed are powerful motivators, and being the daughter of a mob-boss, Frankie knows that well. This is how saving a stranger changes her life forever and gets her involved in the SoA revolution. Rated for mostly L & V
1. The Catalyst

A/N: This is my second SoA story, but it differs from my preffered style of writing (first person) and follows the paths of both Hellhound and Hell is Where We've Been by being a third person story. As always, this is OC-centric. I really like to try and create a good, unique story, that _could_ survive outside of the SoA realm.

Anyway, this is chapter 1. Story is already fully thought through. Chapter 2 is already complete but will not be posted unless reviews are given, or there are enough reads to warrant me continuing this story. So please, please, please, let me know what you think. Constructive criticism always welcomed.

Title comes from a Rise Against song. A lot of insipiration came to me from listening to this song (on repeat more times than I'd care to admit too, lol). Perhaps gives a hint of what's to come?

* * *

><p>There comes a time in every persons life where they must make a drastic decision. An overwhelming decision with no seemingly right or wrong answer. A decision that will forever change their life.<p>

And tonight, crouched behind a crumbling wall stained with too many graffiti tags to count, 23-year-old Frankie Lutz, must make such a decision.

She hides behind the wall, plastering her back to the painted stone, clamping one hand over her mouth to avoid making any noise and gripping the handgun that the mysterious stranger has given her with the other.

"_Do you know how to use one of these?"_

"…_Yes."_

There were no other words before the man cloaked in a dark shadow darted inside the warehouse and left her here, holding a gun that feels comfortable in her hand. It was only when she heard the bangs that are regrettably familiar to her ears that she hid behind the wall, among the slowly falling snow.

The squeaky iron door of the long since abandoned warehouse flies open with force, hard enough to ricochet off the exterior wall.

"GET HIM!" A voice, an unfamiliar male voice yells.

Frankie inches herself up carefully and peers over the corner of the wall. Her stranger, the one who gave her the gun, runs from the building – still mysteriously covert with his sweatshirt hood pulled up over his face as he bounds across the expansive parking lot.

He quickly looks around the parking lot, presumably looking for her, before quickening his pace.

Six people rush out of the warehouse, each of them toting firepower. And not the type of power either her or her stranger has, no. These people are carrying weapons of the automatic variety.

So here is where Frankie finds herself in the thick of her decision. Left or right?

Help the stranger who is in the middle a very dangerous 6-to-1 chase, or run?

Left or right?

You see, there really is no left or right. There is no wrong nor just. The stranger, her stranger, could be as much of a bad guy as the ones chasing him.

There is no correct answer.

So the clear option must be to run. _Clearly_, it is in Frankie's best interest to slink away and forget about her stranger, save herself and not her stranger.

Unfortunately, Frankie's never been much of a clear thinker and has always been one to listen to her gut. And right now her gut is _clearly_ telling her only one thing.

Her stranger is in trouble, and she's the only one around.

"I fucking thought this part of my life was over. God damn it." Frankie cusses silently to herself, mentally damning her intestines and how they all too often override her head and survival instincts.

She thinks quick and in a nanosecond a resolution becomes clear.

McGuyver best be jealous.

She looks over the corner again. Her stranger runs in a whip-like zig-zag pattern to avoid the bullets nipping at his heels, only occasionally firing off a blind shot over his shoulder as he flees.

He's fast, sprinting through the parking lot and jumping over any hurdle or piece of debris in his way. But no matter how fast one is, six guns can usually get one target – quick maneuvers or not.

It's only a matter of time.

Frankie bolts up from her clandestine position and springs to the side of the warehouse, where the old oxygen tanks are stored. The warehouse used to be a medical equipment facility and since abandoned in 2007 it has served a much sinister purpose – a purpose that had originally brought Frankie to this very place.

Gripping each thick tank by its top, she lifts each one up with ease until she at last finds a tank with substantial weight to it – a tank that is thankfully full.

She grabs the tank and takes off, running towards the near-stampede.

All the running bodies have their backs turned to the brunette and she uses this as an opportunity to silently run up behind them. When she's close enough she hurls the tank, creating a downward spiral, so it rolls up to the group of six. When the two men creating the caboose of the running pack hear the steel tank clinking against the broken pavement, they look back.

They see the tank.

And under the pale full moon, they see Frankie. One of the disguised men take aim at Frankie, firing off a few shots while Frankie takes aim.

Pure oxygen is extremely flammable. One little spark and a tank of oxygen can essentially become a bomb.

So, with lack of a better idea, Frankie fires at the tank that rolls underneath the feet of the chasing group.

The men realize what's happen far too late to get out of the way, and as the third shot Frankie fires breeches the thick shell of the tank, it erupts into a ball of flames that engulfs the three closed to it and sends the others flying onto their backs.

With pale hazel eyes that should be wider than they are, Frankie stares at the burning bodies near the epicenter of the mild explosion. Oblivious to everything else, even the surprising lack of negative feelings after murder, she is only aware of the horrible smell.

Burnt flesh and cloth smells exactly like she remembers it from all those years ago.

In the oddest of ways, the acrid smell is comforting. It brings her back to before everything… before everything turned to shit, back when she was still content with being ignorant about how deep evil seeps in this world.

The sickeningly crackle of blistering flesh that quickly follows, however, is one thing Frankie could never get used to. It still makes her stomach churn like it used to.

Frankie tears her eyes away from the six men incapacitated by her actions and finds her stranger across the parking lot. He clutches his left arm close to his body and stares with muted wonder at the olive skinned woman who just saved his life.

"Are you okay?" She shouts.

"I got shot." He shouts back in a gruff voice weighed down by regret.

Frankie wipes the gun down with the bottom of her tank top then tosses it off into the distance, away from the burning bodies and closer to the edge of the fence that divides the warehouse from the nearby overgrown, barren lot next door.

She approaches her injured stranger cautiously out of some unknown fear. Irony to the epitome. Here she is, just having taken the lives of at least three people – maybe more, and _she's_ afraid.

If anything, this poor stranger should keep running.

But he doesn't. He stays still in that one spot under a broken street lamp, clutching his arm and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"That was smart." He says when Frankie reaches him.

Frankie does not respond to the stranger, instead she silently and gently takes a hold of his injured left arm.

Her stranger wears a thick black sweatshirt, but it is evident that a large portion around his upper arm is slickly wet. Frankie inspects his arm closely, ignoring the stares from her stranger that burn her skin.

"You a doctor or somethin'?" He asks, suspicion clear.

"No, I'm a nurse. I work over at-" Frankie snaps her mouth shut and swallows the rest of her sentence.

Her stranger smirks, almost laughing.

"I wouldn't trust me either. Then again, _I _just didn't take out six guys twice my size."

"Well, I didn't have much of a choice, now did I? It was either help you or let them get you and probably kill you." Frankie snaps as heat rises in her sculpted cheeks.

"Oh, you had a choice."

Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, barely long enough to count. But still the stranger's dark brown eyes send a shiver through Frankie's spine that tingles all the way to her toes. His eyes are so dark they're almost black, as if he has no iris – just an amazingly large pupil. Like a character from a macabre novel, her stranger stares at her with black eyes.

Frankie sticks two fingers into the bloody hole torn through the thick cotton of his sweatshirt and pulls the sleeve apart in opposite directions. The sleeve rips in two and the lower half floats down to the ground with no concern in the world. Frankie gets up close to the fully exposed wound, inspecting every little thing about it as she rotates his arm around.

"It's got a clean exit, but you still need stitches - I've got an emergency bag in my car, should have a suture kit in it." Frankie says, mostly just muttering to herself, upon completing her inspection.

Her stranger wretches his arm free and takes back control of his limb.

"I'll be sure to take care of it. Thanks, Doc." He gives a curt gesture of farewell then takes back to holding his limp arm.

"You can't wait to have that stitched up." Frankie says firmly.

"I've got someone who can do it when I'm safe."

"At least let me bandage it, you can't just go walking around with an open hole in your arm." Frankie pleas, as her stranger moves to make an exit.

The stranger looks at her for a long, suspenseful second, before begrudgingly agreeing.

Frankie leads her stranger towards her Charger parked in an adjoining lot, hidden behind a dense wall of overgrown trees and brush. None of the lights in this abandoned part of the industrial area work, haven't in years. But on nights like this, where the moon is full and sparse clouds blend into the black sky, everything is clear as if the lights worked yet again. Even the light snow fall seems to reflect the luminescent qualities of the bright moon.

Frankie steals glances of her stranger as they walk in hurried strides, catching his physical features as he passes in and out of shadows.

He is easily a half foot taller than her, which does not mean she is short – 5'7 is tall in most circles, but he is at least 6'1. His head is shaved, with a subtle stubble of dark brown hair. Each step he takes is heavy, sounded off by the jingling of his wallet chain and the thud of his boots.

"I'm Frankie, by the way." She offers.

"Happy."

Frankie's brow furrows, and she looks away; confused at his response. _He's happy?_

Stealing another sideways glance, she realizes he must be talking about something else because he does not look happy, not even remotely by _any _definition of the word.

"What were you doing here tonight?" Frankie asks, unsure of whether or not she truly wants an honest answer.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone tonight?" Her stranger quips right back.

Frankie shuts her mouth and forces her eyes to stay focused on her forward momentum.

Her stranger looks satisfied, a little closer to his statement of happiness – or at least on his way.

They finally reach her sleek black car, and Frankie pulls out a lonely ring of keys to open the trunk where her emergency kit is. Her stranger leans against the side of the drivers door, taking the resting period to ignite a cigarette and tenderly poke around his gunshot wound.

"Are you sure you don't want me to close that up? It won't take long, I promise."

There's a long moment of silence. Buried down deep into the depths of her trunk, Frankie bends and turns to see over the edge of her car. Her stranger is still there, unblinkingly staring at a chunk of freed pavement by his feet.

"_Hey!"_ Frankie shouts to get his attention.

"We should both get out of here as quick as we can. Where's that gun I gave you?" Her stranger asks, not bothering to look away from the ground.

"I wiped it down then ditched it. I'm not stupid enough to carry a hot piece." Frankie replies while methodically fishing through her well-organized medical kit to obtain two pressure bandages.

Her stranger looks at her, studying, but Frankie pretends not to notice the uncomfortable stare that again burns her tanned flesh. He even goes as far as to come around to the back of her car and stare at her, directly over her tattooed shoulder.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" Stranger asks with as much skepticism and suspicion as when he asked if she were a doctor.

Frankie freezes solid, but thankfully most of her face is hidden from her stranger's burning looks.

"No. That'd be impossible… I just moved out here six months ago." She says.

Her stranger nods and takes back to leaning against the side of her car, but his nod is overflowing with sarcasm and knowing.

It sends another tingling chill down her spine, but this time it terminates near her stomach. Almost like a gnawing feeling of worry, but not quite.

Frankie physically shakes off the heavy settled feeling of unease before closing the lid of her trunk and attending to her stranger. While trying to be meticulous about cleaning the wound with saline and her placement of the pressure bandages, Frankie's anxious mind gets ahead of herself like a dangerously de-railed rollercoaster.

She doesn't remember this man, her stranger, but that doesn't mean much. She doesn't remember much of her years spent in Boston, so for all she really knows, Frankie could know this man.

And that's not good.

Frankie came to California because it was as far away from Boston she could get without leaving the country; California is as far as she could get without using a passport and being entered into any national databases.

Call it paranoia, but even though Frankie is not the same person she was back in Boston, not only is Frankie thousands of miles away, but she wishes to remain as hidden as possible. As written in the infamous novel Catch-22, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

Frankie can't think of a better quote that applies to her life.

"There. All done… Actually, wait." Frankie mumbles. She pulls open the drivers door and bends over to the passenger's seat to retrieve a slip of paper and a writing utensil from her purse. Her purse, a sparsely packed leather bag, does not yield what she desires – the best she could do is a stick of black eyeliner and an old receipt for some coffee.

She scribbles her number on the back of the receipt and hands it to her stranger, now patched up the best to be expected after a minutes work.

"Please call me if you need any more help with that… You strike me as the type who avoids hospitals, and I can come to you. Just don't hesitate to call… You see any abnormal bleeding or any signs of infection, just call. Okay?" She says sternly, rambling off advice to her stranger who looks like he does not appreciate it.

"Sure thing, Doc." Her stranger says.

Frankie doesn't bother to correct him again and say she's only a nurse.

Not that she could if she wanted to. He was gone in the blink of an eye, running off into the thick of the trees. Running off into the darkness.

That was a year ago and in many ways that was the beginning of everything. It was the catalyst.

Without a doubt, Frankie's decision to save her stranger changed her life forever. She just didn't realize _how_ drastically it would change her life.

Left or right?

Frankie's still not sure if she chose correctly.

* * *

><p>Christmastime is usually filled with joy and family, turkey with stuffing and evergreen trees wrapped in sparkling garlands, lost among a pile of presents wrapped with ornate paper.<p>

For Frankie, Christmas bears none of these things. It brings no jovial feelings. No family calls or visits. Not a single tree is decorated, not a single wreath is hung, not a lonely present wrapped.

For Frankie, Christmas is usually celebrated with a bottle of Jaggermister and her old copy of _The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly._ It may be a lonely ritual, but it is her ritual, and though it does not bring her comfort it supplies the miniscule amount of normality she needs to survive. It's tried and true.

She's been watching _The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly_ every Christmas since she was nine and her father popped the movie into the VCR to keep her occupied and away from the basement – away from his dirty deeds.

Curling up in the corner of her camel coloured leather sofa, Frankie cuddles the chilled bottle of Jaggermister close to her bosom.

Just as the opening theme starts and Frankie begins to hum along, her cell phone buzzes and dances around on her oak coffee table. Frankie leans forward, careful not to spill any liquor, and glances at the caller ID.

She knows that number. Besides the hospital it's the one number that calls her phone on a regular basis.

Heavily sighing to herself, Frankie places the bottle down then answers the phone while stimulatenously pressing pause on the TV's remote.

The gritty credits flicker on her small television screen.

"Where do you need me?" Frankie asks, a little bored. This dance of theirs has become a routine she is well adjusted to. They call her up, any time, any day, regardless of holidays or other important dates, with any medical emergency they need help with. A broken bone here. A stab wound there.

You know, the usual.

"The clubhouse." The voice, her stranger, says on the other end.

"You do know it's Christmas, right? Don't you guys ever take a night off?"

"No."

Another sigh. A longing sideways glance at her mostly full bottle.

"I can be there in ten, what am I dealing with?"

But her stranger is no longer listening; he has hung up the phone.

"Prick." Frankie makes a sour face at her Palm Pixi. By now she should really be used to it, her strangers aloof ways of farewells, but she isn't.

Nevertheless, there is work to be done and wounds to be healed. So Frankie takes one swift gulp of her Jaggermister and turns her television off. She shrugs on her navy blue Pea coat and grabs her purse and medical kit from the kitchen counter near the door then leaves her lonely apartment.

Besides, it's not like she has anything better to do on Christmas. It's not like she has a family to celebrate with. It's not like she has much to be cheerful about.

Might as well go take care of some bloody bikers.

* * *

><p>Frankie has been called to the Sons for a wide variety of reasons, and by now has not only become accustomed to being around the large gang of bikers, but she has come to enjoy their company. They may be a rowdy bunch but if you're willing to look past the leather and typical bad-boy attitudes, the Sons are a rather diverse group of men who know how to do one thing well above all else.<p>

They know how to throw a killer party.

So when Frankie rolls into the long parking lot of the SoA compound, she is more surprised that she was surprised to find a party more than anything else. She shouldn't have expected anything less.

Frankie parks her Charger close to the exit because a large sea of people gather near the fire-pit and block any feasible entrance for such a large car. She slings her heavy emergency kit over one shoulder and leans to balance out the dangling weight.

Quickly, Frankie asks the first person she sees where she's needed, a young member by the name of Chad Pembroke, who tells her to report to the Chapel. She asks him what she was called for, but Chad can offer nothing more than a shrug as he's pulled away by a skinny red-head in a revealing Santa Claus costume.

Frankie makes her way through the crowd, having to forcibly push past more than her fair share of drunken celebrators in order to reach the clubhouse door.

Her stranger is waiting for her on the other side of the door. Happy, she found out rather quickly is his preferred name. What his true name is remains a mystery, but Frankie has quite often thought of it as being 'Dave'. Why? She's not sure - he just really seems like a Dave.

"What's going on?" Frankie shouts over the loud ambient noise of the bar.

"Juice kinda got stabbed and Chibs is too drunk to do anything." Happy says while taking his time ushering her to the Chapel.

"What do you mean he _kinda_ got stabbed?" Frankie asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"I mean the drunk dumbass fell on his own fucking knife when he was trying to impress some chick."

Frankie would like to say she's surprised.

But she isn't.

Happy opens the Chapel doors for her, and when Frankie sees Juice she tries not to laugh but fails miserably.

Juice lays stomach-down on the carved redwood table, his switchblade sticking straight up from his left butt cheek. A visible stream of blood stains through his jeans, but it's far from being an alarming amount.

He twists his neck around and looks up at Frankie as she walks in.

"Hey there, Doc." He smiles crookedly. Even though Frankie is not a doctor, it is how she is known to the Sons and while they sometimes refer to her as Frankie, she is mostly called upon with the simple three-lettered nickname of Doc.

Frankie's still not sure if it's sarcastic, if they're teasing her over not being a full doctor. But she doesn't mind.

Okay, well maybe she does a little, but that's a secret she keeps even from herself.

"Knife in the ass. This is definitely a new low, even for you Juice." Frankie jokes.

"It was an accident, all right! I dropped the knife and forgot about it…"

"Yeah and then you sat down right on top of it." Chibs snickers. The Scotsman sits at the table with an amused look on his scarred face, seemingly ignoring Juice's body laying down right in front of him, as he rolls a joint on the back of Juice's thigh.

"It could've happened to anyone!" Juice yells in his defense.

"Yes. _Anyone _could've sat down on their own knife hard enough to imbed it in their ass." Frankie says sarcastically as she sets down her kit and prepares.

"I didn't sit down, I fell." Juice mutters, angrily turning his head away from Frankie.

"Of course you did." Frankie coos.

"You shoulda seen it, Doc. It was the funniest damn thing I've seen all year." Chibs smirks.

Frankie places everything she'll need for this particular extraction on the edge of the table, well within reach and arranged by order of use. First a bunch of gauze, second a suture kit, more gauze, some tape….

Before she begins, Frankie turns to Chibs who has not yet finished stuffing his ground pot into the curved wrapping paper.

"You think you can help me out with this?" Frankie asks the Scotsman, gesturing with a thumb to Juice's buttocks.

"What do you need me for?" Chibs asks, grumbling a bit and showing that he is not eager to help his injured brother.

"I don't have any more Lidocaine left - he's going to squirm. I need you to hold his legs down then clear away the blood while I stitch the incision," She turns now to face Happy, "Do you think you could pin his arms down?"

Happy nods.

Chibs begrudgingly accepts.

Juice is not happy about either.

"This gonna hurt, Doc?" He asks.

"No. Not one bit." Frankie says.

"You're a horrible liar."

"I know."

Happy and Chibs take their respectful positions and Frankie gets a firm grip on the knife's handle, pressing deep into the small of Juice's back with the other for leverage.

"Alright, take a deep breath." She orders Juice.

He complies.

Frankie pulls on the knife until it becomes loose, then slowly lifts it out of Juice's thick flesh. When the knife is almost out she motions with a jerk of her head for Chibs to come over and grab some gauze.

Chibs holds the gauze near the stab wound and no sooner than Frankie gets the knife completely loose does Chibs presses gauze into the wound.

Juice is stiff underneath her, contracting all his muscles against the pain of having a knife pulled from his ass.

"Remember to breathe, Juice." Frankie warns.

He relaxes, but only slightly.

"Alright, let's get down to business…."

* * *

><p>END! of Chapter 1. Please review, whether it be a one-word comment (IE; Good, Bad), a long review or constructive criticism, they are all appreciated and push me to write better.<p> 


	2. Exploitation

Author's Note:

First of all: Wow! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. Second, this chapter is a little short, only approx. 3700 words, but there will be another post this week. Not so much humour in this chapter here, this is much more of the 'drama' aspect. A lot happens. A lot is left out.

This story has a somewhat non-linear (but date-marked) sequence of events. Some details are intentionally not explained or omitted all together – if this gets confusing please do not hesitate in telling me to write like a normal person, ;)

As always, Enjoy :)

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><p><span>One Year Ago:<span>

The painfully deserted stretch of road seems to go on forever, infinitely reaching out into the illuminated darkness. Towering redwoods smother the road from every side, blocking out the nearby lights of a rising Charming. The town has changed so drastically in recent months, it's barely a skeleton of what it once was. While the changes, such as the new luxury condominiums and high-end strip mall, seem to be for the best, they are truly nothing more than a lie – an illusion.

If anything, now that Charming is rising to mythological greatness, the town is more corrupt than ever before.

But here, on the long road that intricately winds through the majestic Northern California redwoods, it's almost like being transported back to the old Charming.

Back to before Hale fucked everything up.

Reveling in the lulled peace that is so rare to find in Charming nowadays, the pain in Happy's arm intensifies as his adrenaline rush fades away. To keep his mind busy and away from the pain that comes from a bullet ripping through his arm, Happy ignores the peaceful atmosphere of his ride and thinks about the one thing that comes easiest.

The nurse.

Frankie.

Happy never forgets a face, certainly not one as exotically beautiful as hers. High, perfectly chiseled cheekbones. Bright, round hazel eyes that stand out in stark contrast to her dark olive skin. The slightest of clefts in her rounded chin that graces her strong jaw.

Without the most miniscule of doubts, Happy knows her. From where, though, he's not sure.

But he's most certainly going to find out.

"89Q M987"Happy says aloud to himself, repeating the license plate number on her car and forever engraining the tag in his mind.

Whoever Frankie is, she is in no way an ordinary Jane. Ordinary Jane's don't use oxygen tanks to blow up six very angry gangsters and not bat a single eyelash afterwards. Ordinary Jane's don't ditch hot guns, let alone know what a hot gun is.

Ordinary Jane's don't save his life.

* * *

><p><span>Present Day:<span>

"Now, Juice, as much as I love seeing your bare 'Rican ass, I don't want to be getting any calls in the middle of the night that you ripped these stitches, so be careful. I'll be back in a few days to check on your…_injury_ and if all goes well you should have the stitches out in a couple of weeks." Frankie tells her patient, who has been periodically nursing a Whiskey bottle like a newborn suckles on a breast, as she slips off her blood-tainted latex gloves and throws them into the bright orange biohazard bag already filled with blood soaked gauze.

"Aye, no more impressin' chicks with your _sweet moves_." Chibs smirks maliciously while delivering a soft slap to a spot on Juice's back, just barely above the fresh wound. Juice grimaces, his whole body twitching at he lays a top the table.

Frankie promptly slaps Chibs' hand in reprimand, "Be nice."

"_Fuckin' douche."_ Juice says under his breath. He gets up off of the solid wood table gingerly, careful of his tender rear and equally careful of his pulled-down jeans so as not to completely expose himself.

"That was me bein' nice, if I wanted to be a real dick I'd do this-" Chibs maneuvers around Frankie lightning fast and slaps Juice right on the rear - right ontop of his stitches.

Juice jumps up, quickly darting away from Chibs' touch, and then after a brief moment to overcome the pain he limps away into the large crowd congregating on the other side of the Chapel doors. All the while passionate, graphic, obscenities drunkenkly directed at the floor are heard.

"Really, Chibs? You just _had_ to do that?" Frankie asks Chibs, doing a poor job of hiding her caustic irritation.

Overly snide, Chibs sticks up his middle finger and briefly holds it out lethargically for Frankie before stalking out.

With her hands on her hips, Frankie watches Chibs go, following the Scot with her eyes as he steals a beer off Max's table in passing then disappears among the crowd. She sighs shallowly, her head physically shaking side-to-side in the faintest of ways – a representation of her subconscious disapproval.

He always turns into a bit of a piss-ant whenever he drinks too much whiskey.

It used to be funny, not ha-ha funny but funny all the same, when Chibs got drunk on whiskey because normally he's such a fun drunk. When Chibs is drunk on anything _but_ whiskey, he's hilarious and rowdy, quick with a side-splitting joke and the first one to say "_Yes. Jumping off the roof and into the sandbox is a fucking _great _idea"._

But now it's just plain annoying.

Solitary in the Chapel yet in the depth of blaring rock music and multiple conversations, Frankie turns her back on the crowd and finishes cleaning the mess left behind.

* * *

><p>Standing in the middle of the doorway, Frankie takes one last inspecting glance of the large room to make sure everything is in proper order. While carefully deciding that the room is fine and that she has done a good job, she readjusts the emergency kit strap on her shoulder. It always feels awkward, this large, soft cube resting right against her hip and swaying along with her every move.<p>

Abruptly turning to exit, Frankie is startled half to death when she bumps right into the chest of Happy.

"_Holy shit."_ She yelps.

Happy smirks that faint smirk of his – the gentle tugging at the corner of his mouth that is almost a smile – almost a laugh.

"Geez, way to be a creeper, Happy." Frankie says with a fair amount of joking when her heart beat calms down.

"Don't flatter yourself. I was just coming to give you this." Happy hands Frankie a plain white envelope, stuffed with thick padding that is presumably her payment for tonight's work. Taking the envelope, Frankie's lean fingers lift up the flap and quickly assess the amount of bills inside.

It doesn't take her long to figure out that this is _way_ more than she normally receives – far exceeding the standard $350.

"This is too much." Frankie says as she hands the envelope back.

Happy refuses to take the money, "Clay told me to give it to you, so take it. Consider it your Christmas bonus."

"Bullshit. Clay doesn't give bonuses." Frankie takes a pause, letting her current reality settle in and realizing what the extra money indicates. "What does he want?" She finishes.

Happy is silent with his smirk as he stares down at Frankie. The sharp-tongued woman never fails to pleasantly surprise him. She's not like other women. She doesn't hold back what she thinks regardless of company and it is virtually impossible to sneak anything by her. She thinks fast on her feet and though sometimes skittish, she has never once lost her cool no matter how hectic a situation gets.

She always does the right thing.

And that's why Happy knows she's going to refuse what he's about to ask of her – regardless of any monetary reward.

"Clay wants the recipe."

Frankie scoffs, "There is no way in hell he's finding out how to make Oxy from me." She shoves the white envelope into his chest but Happy refuses to grab ahold of it so it falls to the ground.

"He's not gonna stop, Frankie. Clay either wants the recipe or he wants you to start manufacturing again." Happy warns, hating how harsh and demeaning he sounds.

"I don't give a shit what he wants; he's not my fuckin' puppet master." Frankie sneers. She makes a brisk move to go, but Happy firmly grabs her upper arm and forcibly holds her back. His large hand compeletly wraps around her upper arm and his fingers dig into her flesh, hard enough to surely leave a lasting mark.

Frankie winces only slightly.

"Clay doesn't take no for an answer. He's going to get it one way or another."

Frankie looks up, staring directly into Happy's darker than dark eyes with nothing but sheer daring, "Or what, he's gonna have you kill me?" She asks, ever headstrong, with a hushed shout.

Happy shoves Frankie back into the Chapel so hard that she stumbles backwards into the table. Then he too takes a step inside, pulling the heavy doors shut behind him.

Frustration getting the better of him, Happy pushes down on Frankie's shoulder, forcing her to sit in a chair when she tries to leave. The whole time Frankie does not say a word, but rather she stares him head on and refuses to be afraid.

She does not scare easy, and the fact that Frankie is not scared by him only frustrates Happy more.

With a heavy but truthful heart, Happy takes in a deep breath and tells it the only way he knows how – brutally honest, "If he asked me to kill you, I would have to say yes."

Frankie looks away, pulling the bag back onto her shoulder and refusing to believe what Happy just said.

"You couldn't kill me." There is not even the faintest hint of doubt in her voice. How very wrong of her.

"Why are you so quick to think that I wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in your head?" Happy growls, making a gun shape with his thumb and forefinger, pressing the latter deep into her temple.

A spark ignites in Frankie's soul; her eyes become wide and livid and her chest puffs out as she stands up - instantly swatting away Happy's strong arm as he tries to again pus her back down,"Because you're not like the rest of them!" Frankie shouts, angrily pointing beyond the door in gesture to the Sons of Anarchy as a whole. Happy crosses his muscular tattooed arms over his chest, clenching tight his fists that burrow into his underarms in a last ditch effort to control his anger. Pushing a woman is one thing, but Happy is not so devoid of morals that he'd hit her out of pure rage.

It's a close call though.

He has to remind himself that it is not okay to hit her every few milliseconds.

"Just give him the fucking recipe!" Happy shouts.

"NO!" Frankie yells.

"Get the fuck off your high horse! You had absolutely no problem selling this god damn poison before!" Immediately seeing Frankie's reaction, Happy wishes he had just kept his mouth shut - or even that he'd slapped her. Anything other than say what he did would be preferable. It's palpable that his cacophonus words prove to hurt Frankie in more ways than one. Not only is it clear she's not going to easily forgive him for dredging up the buried past, but with the pain invoked by his shouted demands he's pushing her in the opposite direction that he wants her to go. By Happy saying what he did, he's only enforcing her denial.

As Frankie's rose painted lips part to speak, the Chapel doors loudly swing open wide - freezing whatever she was planning on saying.

Piney stands between the parted doors, warily looking upon the duo. The old man has a pie-sized soft spot for Frankie, has ever since he first tasted her supernaturally delicious apple pie. But the reason Piney likes Frankie is truly more than that. At his wise age he sees something in her that he has seen in other people, but something that seems to be absent from most of his brothers.

A heart of pure gold.

"Is, uhh, everything alright in here?" His raspy voice cuts straight through the raging emotions of both Happy and Frankie.

Back still turned to the old First 9'er, Happy snaps a heavy "Yeah."

"Doc?" Piney asks, skeptically leaning to one side to get a better look at the slender woman hidden behind Happy's bulky form.

"Yeah, Piney. Everything's fine." Frankie snaps one last glare at Happy then grabs the envelope from the floor. Briskly leaving as if being chased, Frankie stops only long enough to shove the envelope of money into Piney's hands and mutter a hasty, "I thought you were supposed to be the good guys." that comes across as the cruelest words ever uttered.

Piney watches her go until she is lost among the crowd, a sting echoing in his heart. When she's gone, he stuffs the envelope into one of the pockets in the lining of his cut and then places his attention on Happy - none too pleased with the situation and it shows.

"Don't even say it." Happy gripes, holding up a hand that quickly jerks to one side in a gesture of dismissal.

Piney takes a deep inhale of oxygen from the tubes that reach into his nostrils, unpleasantly glaring at the much younger man in front of him, "Doc has been a good friend to this club, and I suggest you reevaluate how you treat our nice lady friends unless you want the favour returned." Piney warns. From the bar seat he was sharing with Mr. Jack Daniels, Piney saw everything that transpired between Frankie and Happy before the Chapel doors slammed shut. Piney was unwillingly witness to Happy throwing Frankie around like she was a ragdoll, something that is never acceptable. An old chivalrous man who above all else truly and undoubtedly views himself as 'one of the good guys', Piney holds a steadfast disapproval over Happy's abhorrent actions.

Happy does not respond to Piney, but rather the SAMCRO Unholy One keeps staring out into the crowd at the exact spot where he lost sight of Frankie.

"D'you hear me boy -" Piney is rudely cut off as Happy storms past him with hurricane force, not caring in the slightest that his shoulder roughly connects with Piney's.

* * *

><p>Juice catches Frankie on her way out and easily convinces the flustered nurse to have a drink with him.<p>

That one drink turned into two.

That second drink turned into three.

Three quickly turned to four.

But four was gone to fast, so a fifth drink was had.

And then that fifth drink turned into six.

And by then… Well….

Frankie stumbles out of the clubhouse, clinging for dear life onto the swinging door to keep herself from falling.

"I'm never drinking that much again." Frankie moans quietly into the cold door, but even she knows that's an empty promise. She'll wake up tomorrow with a horrendous hang-over and go to her good old remedy, hair of dog – a super-gulp sized Irish coffee.

Frankie cautiously opens her eyes, relieved to find that the entire world is not spinning around her like she is pinned to some universalistic roulette wheel.

With numbed fingers she fishes her keys out of the deep pockets in her old jeans – the ones that are torn and stained with things that she can no longer identify and really should've been thrown away months ago. But they're comfortable, and nowadays, looking like a homeless person is all the rage. So the jeans stay.

Everyone that had previously gathered outside to celebrate the holiday have crammed themselves into the clubhouse. The northern California natives are pathetically unaccustomed to the nipping cold, and as the temperature dove to an unusual bone chilling 20º Fahrenheit they ran away from Jack Frost like dogs with their tails between their legs. From spending the majority of her 24 winters living in the notorious hostile cold of the northeast, 20º is downright balmy. It's only when the temperature dips into the dangerous negatives that the icy conditions bother her - the type of cold where it hurts your nose to breath.

Frankie stumbles towards her restored Charger, gripping onto anything and everything for support along her way. She grabs a few bikes that she doesn't care to examine enough, not giving a damn about the juvenile 'no-touchies!' rule. Just to be rebellious, she runs her hand along the length of the drag bars on some nameless bike, lulling a high-pitched _nana-nana-boo-boo_in her mind.

The short trip to her car is proving much more daunting than she imagined. Drunker than Charlie Sheen, Frankie gets confused and walks in a giant circle without realizing it, ending up clear across the parking lot from where she wants to be. Leaning up against the wall for support, Frankie targets her glazed hazel eyes onto her car, determined to make it there.

But she feels like Columbus setting sail for the an unknown world, having no idea how she'll make it. She navigates the dangerous black asphalt ocean, taking each step carefully and with a great deal of concentration.

When Frankie finally makes it to her car she has to brace herself with both hands against the shiny hood while her roulette wheel condition returns. The world around her spins wildly out of control. Frankie closes her eyes. She breathes in the bitingly cold air. She makes more empty promises to God about never again consuming as much liquor as she has.

But the nauseous unease only magnifies.

"Oh god… I'm gonna…" Rushing to gather her loose dark brown tresses, Frankie manages to get her hair out of the way just before her stomach turns and she paints the asphalt with regurgitated alcohol.

It leaves a burning in her throat, but when the heaving finally subsides Frankie finds herself feeling much better than before. She wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her navy blue coat, taking in a shaky but steadying breath of chilled night air.

When Frankie regains her composure she works her way around the front end of her car, careful to keep one hand glued to the hood for support.

Smiling with drunken content to her herself, she sticks her key in the door and unlocks her Charger.

"You really think you can make it home in one piece?" A familiar voice gravely asks.

For the second time tonight Frankie is startled by Happy – who stands by the bikes, deeply amused by watching her fumble about for the last few minutes. It's obvious that the young Italian woman is plastered, something that Happy has yet to witness. She's not a big drinker and usually only drinks wine - _always _cutting herself off after three glasses.

_Just fucking great,_ Frankie thinks to herself about Happy's degrading question.

"What does it matter to you? If I turn into roadkill wouldn't it just save you a job?" Frankie bitterly jokes.

"I never said I was going to kill you." Happy says, softer than he's ever spoken before but that doesn't mean much.

"No, of course not, you just said that if Clay asked, you wouldn't say no." Frankie acerbically remarks.

Happy crosses the remaining distance between them, taking slow and deliberate strides. Frankie watches him closely, her hand hesitating on the door handle. Her mind tells her to get in the car and drive away, but her gut, oh her silly little gut, it tells her to stay.

When he stands so close that Frankie can smell him, his subtle combination of yesterday's Old Spice and tobacco, her heart begins to race.

She then catches the blow back of her own breath - like taking a whiff from an isopropyl alcohol bottle.

"Give me your keys." Happy demands cooly.

Frankie only grips her keys tighter.

"Don't be stupid, Frankie."

"I'm fine." Frankie asserts.

A loud hiccup betrays her.

"You're hammered." Happy leans against the front quarter panel, his signature smirk back upon his face.

Frankie stares at him in defiant refusal to surrender her keys, and thereafter her car and her life to her stranger.

She's fine, really. She looks more drunk than she actually is.

Frankie stops, taking in more deep breaths of the sharp night air to dilute the saddening return of the spins. She flattens her whole body against the side of her car, wrapping her arms around the back curvature of the rear windows to keep herself from falling down. Her stomach churns and twists like experiencing high g-force fluctuations.

Alright. Maybe she isn't okay to drive.

Groaning, Frankie blindly hands her keys over to Happy.

Looking back at the situation with 20/20 hindsight, Frankie really should've gone inside and found someone else to drive her home. Or call a cab – essentially anything in the world other than let stranger drive her home.

Alcohol and bad boys do not mix.

* * *

><p>Please review.<p> 


	3. Never Say Never

One Year Ago:

Hunched over a table in a darkened corner of the bar area, Happy flips through the manila folder Juice handed him not long ago with acute focus. He pours over each page of the dossier, taking in every little detail contained within.

Sitting across the table from the Unholy One, Juice anxiously shifts around in his chair. "If this Frankie chick is really _her_," Juice taps the folder with his finger, "then we've got to tell Clay. I mean this is crazy, right? The daughter of Angelo DiGanggi, here - in _Charming_. That's... it's-"

Happy lifts his eyes from the folder and looks at Juice from under the heavy hood of his brow, "Stop! Go sit over there and shut up." He barks, gesturing to Juice's small office over by the pool tables. Juice's youthful enthusiasm and accompanying rant has been wearing Happy's already worn nerves thin. The kid never shuts the fuck up - it's like silence is a fucking foreign concept to him.

Happy waits for an unhappily dismissed Juice to leave before returning to _her_ dossier.

Though the kid may be annoying, he is right.

Clay needs to know.

* * *

><p><span>Current Day:<span>

_Girl is on my Mind _by The Black Keys plays over the Charger's upgraded sound system, the latest result of her iPod's ingenious shuffle playlist. Listening to the music and letting it relax her, Frankie gently rolls her warm forehead against the cold window pane while watching with vague interest as they drive by all the new construction.

Tall buildings made of steel and concrete stretch up, on top of the ruins of old Charming. Everything that once stood has been demolished, the land reformatted. For a few months Charming looked like it was leveled by a tornado. But then in came the construction crews and the traffic lines, the property holding companies and their $5,000 suit wearing CEO's. Then in came the rich people. The rich people who strut along the newly constructed sidewalks, a teacup Chihuahua in one hand and a Starbuck's coffee in the other. All the while looking down their noses at the few Charming locals who haven't been shoved out of the town by the rapidly rising cost of living within city limits.

"I wasn't here for long before everything started bein' built up, but I liked it better the other way. This," She points out the window to the large buildings, each looking like a carbon copy of the last, "is a fucking sell-out. You know, last I saw in the paper they're expecting _another_ ten thousand people to move here this year. In two years? The city population is projected to be at 78,000, and that, my friend, is a shit ton of people." She scoffs, "Small town my ass." More bitter words are muttered under her breath, mainly directed at her landloard whom she declares to be "a fucking rapist for charging me nine-hundred bucks a month for a one bedroom".

Happy can think of nothing else to say other than, "Shit."

Frankie nods, "Shit, indeed."

Her mind, altered but not relieved, can't stop thinking about what Happy told her in the Chapel. It's like a god damned curse, this active brain of hers.

Everything Happy said is true; Clay will not stop. If he wants the formula for Frankie's brand of black market OxyContin, he'll find a way to get it. Frankie is nothing more than an obstacle standing directly between him and a large pay day.

Through discreet words hushed between neighbours on the sidewalks and raging actions punctuated by ANFO bombs, it is well known that no one keeps Clay from obtaining the overflow of wealth he craves. And if you do?

Expect to be wrapped up in a sheet and left on the side of the road for the vultures.

Frankie sighs, creating a quick burst of condensation on the window pane. Absentmindedly she draws a small smiley face complete with a crooked smile in the fog with her index finger. Realizing the connection, she wipes away the drawing quickly with her sleeve.

Her hazel eyes close for longer than a standard blink, her shimmery gold eyelids heavy weighted by hesitation and jumping nerves.

Picking up on the melancholy Frankie radiates, Happy diverts his attention from the road and takes a look at Frankie. She is slumped low on the bench seat, her temple resting against the cold window pane as she despondently watches the passing scenery. As the inky-black Charger pushes on through the night, passing under the street lamps that now line the main streets of Charming, shadows play on Frankie's sharp facial features and somewhere in-between light and dark Happy sees it then – Frankie's mind has been made up.

She will never turn over the formula and the very likely possibility that Clay will try to beat it out of her does not intimidate her.

Her eyes flicker away from the street and meet his, "If Clay put a hit on me, would you tell me?"

Happy turns away and forces his attention to stay on the road. He tries not to notice the disappointed look on Frankie's face as she turns away and again presses her flushed face against the window.

The Black Keys fade to nothing and quickly _Bartholomew _by The Silent Comedy comes on.

Barely audible over the music a solemn, "Didn't think so" rings about in Happy's head.

Happy stops at a red light, the only car around in this midnight hour. Underneath his foot the car's strong engine craves to go faster.

Or maybe it's just him.

* * *

><p>Still sitting in the Charger, Frankie looks up at her third-story apartment through the foggy windshield.<p>

Happy rests his chin on his fist, looking out the driver's window to the empty street.

They've been sitting here for ten minutes, uncomfortably fermenting in a tense silence with nothing but the quiet whistle of the wind and the fast-paced notes of _Drones in the Valley_ by Cage the Elephant.

"He already did - Clay told you to get me to hand over the formula no matter what, didn't he? And then if I say keep saying no, what's another body?" Her words are heavy weighted, filling her rhetorical question with a bitter passion that surpisingly holds no anger.

She understands.

And that makes this so much harder on Happy.

"Just give him the formula and take the money."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Full of conviction and righteousness, her words echo off the steel and glass, weaving into the white vinyl seats and somehow proving to deepen the pit of regret in Happy's stomach, "Clay is a greedy tyrant who knows his days as king are numbered and he's clinging to every last bit of power he has, and I'm not going to be the person that funds his war against Hale. I'm not going to contribute to all the deaths and senseless violence… I will _never _help you or your club in that way again - not after what happened last time." Frankie takes a long pause, letting her words sink in, "So, do what you have to, but that formula is going with me to the grave."

Happy knows what he has to do.

Frankie knows what he has to do.

But that doesn't make this any easier. For either of them.

"Clay's given you two days to think about it. I suggest you get out of Charming before your time is up." Happy's eyes linger on Frankie. Pleading; Desperation; Begging; what he's doing could be equated to those words that are so foreign to him.

But it's clear that Frankie has no intention of heeding his warning. A smart girl reduced to a stupid, stubborn child, Happy can't understand why Frankie is the way she is. He can't wrap his head around why someone would so willingly go against Clay, knowing that it could lead directly to her demise.

So he asks her.

The answer is nothing like he expected. Not even in his wildest dreams could he of imagined Frankie preaching the words she does.

"I've known men like Clay my whole life. Men like him who use fear to rule, and think that they're untouchable – that _no one _has the guts to stand up to them…" Her words end suddenly, as if she just realized something important. But the look quickly fades, replaced by something dark - something akin to diabolical glee.

"And you have the guts?" Happy asks dryly.

Frankie laughs once, distant and sad as her head sways side-to-side, "You can't see it because you're too close to the club, but Charming is falling apart and scared to death, all because of Clay. If people see for themselves that you don't have to kneel in front of bastards like that and live in fear everyday - if people realize that they can take back their town from _every_ twisted mother fucker with padded pockets… Well, that's something worth fighting for."

Nodding to herself as if to say 'Well, that's that', Frankie opens the door and slides out of her car, only stumbling slightly. She has said her peace and that is that. Just like that.

Frankie says a warm "Merry Christmas, Happy" and with one final smile she waves him a good night. As the car door swings closed, caught in the middle of light and dark, Happy catches sight of the greasy remains of a smiley face drawn onto the window by a finger.

Long after Frankie goes inside Happy remains seated behind the wheel of her Charger, unable to look away from the barely visible smiley face.

* * *

><p>Chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen that she tenderly rolls between her lean fingers, Frankie stares down at the ink drawing of her signature chemical composition on the crisp white napkin spread between her fingers.<p>

Left or right?

The question was never as simple as that, and Frankie was a fool to ever think it was.

Her morals gripping her chest tight like a vice, Frankie crushes the napkin into a disheveled wad under her hand.

* * *

><p>Please, please, please review. :)<p> 


	4. Morning Light

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed.

Enjoy :)

* * *

><p><span>One Year Ago:<span>

If you don't know who Angelo DiGanggi is, you – my friend, have been living under a very secluded rock for quite some time. His name is plastered all over the news in connection with Italian mob activity in Boston. His name in and of itself is baleful, indisputably tainted by the blood of countless victims. According to the most recent highlights, he is the prime suspect in over twenty murders and tied to mob families all over the country, which gives him unprecedented access to a nationwide criminal enterprise worth millions of dollars. Drugs; Prostitution; Extortion; Murder for hire; All Fairly run of the mill stuff for mobsters, but DiGanggi is exponentially more ruthless than anyone witnessed by history before him. Nobody says no to Angelo DiGanggi. Not if they want to live, that is.

If Don Vito Corleone were a real person, _he_ would bow down and kiss DiGanggi's ring.

Scared?

No?

Well, you should be.

It's a running joke that DiGanggi could make the devil shit his pants. And that joke is not around for nothing. Most people existing outside of the law don't easily kill cops for fear of persecution, because, after all, there's no way to get a police target on your back like killing one of their own. But not DiGanggi. He makes a habit of killing any law enforcement official who gets in his way and he's so good at covering his tracks that no one can do a damn thing about it except sit back and watch, with their hands metaphorically tied by legal red tape, as corpse after bloody corpse piles up.

Now, the next question is why is this important to the Sons of Anarchy?

And there is a very simple answer.

Fear.

DiGanggi is not the type of person they want lurking around their town, because wherever DiGanggi is, a trail of bodies is sure to follow. Much like Mary and her little lamb, misery and murder always come hand-in-hand with DiGanggi's wake. Not to mention the fact that with DiGanggi's power and resources, he could easily push the Sons out of Charming and place his flag on the newly paved streets of the upcoming city.

Clay flips to the first page of Frankie's file, skimming the top page only briefly before closing the file and turning back to Happy – who waits patiently seated next to his President at the bar.

"So, this…_nurse _you ran into at the Purdue Pharmaceutical facility, you think she's really Athena DiGanggi?"

Happy nods, "As soon as I saw the name and her face together, I knew it was her."

Athena or Frankie as she's apparently going by now, looks exactly like her father. You know, just twenty years younger plus a pair of tits.

Clay takes a sip of his whiskey, and when he speaks his words are spoken into the glass and echo about, "This town is going to hell faster than a crashing plane full of Catholic priests," Clay puts his glass down on the bar, suddenly coming to a realization that makes his eyes go wide, "… Purdue warehouse…I bet this has something to do with all the Oxy in town that we can't trace." He stabs his finger against the lacquered bar counter.

"What do you want to do?" Happy asks.

Clay takes another sip of his drink, considering routes of action to take, "We need more intel. Keep a close eye on her; find out what's going on with daddy dearest."

Even though 'keeping an eye' on people is not even in the realm of Happy's job description, he obliges his Presidents request. The word 'no' is not in Happy's repertoire, especially when in relation to a request from Clay.

* * *

><p>For the most part, following Frankie – or Athena – <em>Doc?<em>

_**Whatever.**_

Following Doc, Happy decides, is a very boring job. She lives a mile away from main street, in a window-filled apartment constructed in the late 20's and rarely ventures outside, save for her daily trips to St. Jude's Hospital a few towns over from Charming where she stays for about twelve hours everyday.

What he only realizes on the fourth day of following her, however, is that she knows she's being followed.

It is a complete accident. Happy dares to leave the hospital for five minutes to go to the coffee shop a block down and get some coffee that doesn't taste like liquefied dog shit and he finds her sitting at a table, typing away on a laptop in-between sips of her coffee.

Sneaky little bitch has been darting out the back the entire time.

Happy is good at tailing people, and he knows this. He never used his loud as hell bike, always stays back at least three cars and even makes sure to occasionally follow from the front then go down a side-road and resume the chase seconds later – he never even parked in the same place twice. For crying out loud he was about as inconspicuous as a city worker wearing a bright orange day-glo vest and carrying a transistor radio. He perfectly blends into the background, noticed but never remembered.

Frankie looks up from her laptop screen, hearing the bell over the door ring-a-ding as Happy makes his entrance.

But instead of looking scared or even surprised, she looks bored. As if this sort of thing happens to her all the time.

Which, in reality, it does. Her father always had someone following her and ever since she was fourteen and decided that you _cannot_ get a date with a 6'5, 350-pound man following you, she can make herself disappear better than an elephant at a Copperfield show.

Frankie waves Happy over to take the seat across from her.

He plunks down into the seat, and whether he's irritated or surprised remains to be up for debate – even to himself.

With a coy smirk, Frankie rests her chin in her palm, "Are you too scared to call me?" She asks with a hint of amusement in her voice, like this is all a funny game to her. But it's blatantly obvious from the shift in her previously relaxed body language to something far more defensive that she aware of how serious the current situation is.

Happy leans over the table, closing her laptop and invading her personal space – but Frankie does not shy away in the slightest, "What are you doing in Charming, _Athena?"_

Frankie's mask of cockiness falters, but it's so quick that if Happy had blinked he would have missed it, "So, you know."

"Yep." His 'p' is over-pronounced.

Frankie sighs, leaning back into her chair and rubbing the palms of her hands up and down the length of the armrests. "Well, that _sucks_." She mutters under her breath. Frankie reaches out to grab her coffee and take a long sip. She seems so blasé with her berry-coloured lips around the rim of her coffee cup and her eyes targeted on his cut as she reads his patches.

"You don't _look_ like you work for Dad." She muses into her cup before taking another casual sip.

"That's because I don't." Happy responds.

"Then, pray tell, why are you – I'm sorry, what's your name?" She asks.

"Happy."

"Right – so, Happy, why are following me, then?" Frankie finishes.

Cold as steel, Happy says, "First, you tell me what you're doing in Charming."

Frankie smirks, both her eyebrows jerking up, "I don't need to know why you're following me. So nice bluff, but I'll be leaving now."

She stands up but Happy's arm flies over the table and he grabs onto her small wrist, tightening his grip as humanly possible without breaking bone.

Nose flaring and jaw clenched, Frankie sits back down with a fierce glare set his way. Happy cautiously takes his hand back, keeping it close incase she tries to leave again.

"You know who I am. So let me ask you this - Do you really think it's a good idea to be goin' around messing with Angelo DiGanggi's daughter?" Her most powerful card has been played. Normally when she says those words, people quickly apologize and scurry away like vermin.

But not Happy; He's not fazed at all.

Frankie takes that into consideration and adjusts her game plan for this particular predicament. She crosses her legs under the table and rests one arm limp over her lap, letting her hand venture down and slowly pull up her Michael Kors purse and the small revolver inside, from the floor - safely outside of Happy's sight. Or so she thinks.

Without looking away from her face, Happy kicks her hand under the table with the steel toe of his boot. Frankie smirks with narrowed eyes, dropping her purse back to the floor. _Smart little shit,_ she thinks.

"You've been tailing me for four days, so I must be some kind of important to your _MC.._." Waving a finger at his cut, she says this like the mere notion of an MC is a joke, "And I'm presuming it's because you want to know about my Dad, right?"

"Yeah." Happy grunts. He's rather peeved that she insinuated the Sons were small fish, even though to someone as criminally evolved as a DiGanggi they probably are, but he doesn't let it show. Stoic as ever, his face remains clear of a discernable emotive.

"Well, he's back in Boston. I'm here on my own, as you probably know by now – yeah, that's right – you're a freakin' creeper for bein' outside my apartment all the time," She takes a brief pause, looking at the leather-clad man across from her with narrowed hazel eyes, "I'm not looking to get into anything out here. I just want to live on my own - I'm sure someone like you can appreciate a little alone time. So, are you gonna stop following me or should I pick up dinner for two on my way home?" She asks, cocky smirk back on her face.

Happy does not like being outsmarted, or even letting someone think they're two steps ahead. He does not appreciate cockiness as a personality trait, and he's rather close to wiping that smirk from her face.

Bitch thinks she knows everything.

"You said you moved out here six months ago? Well, six months ago, _doll_, off-market Oxy popped up in Charming. It doesn't take someone as _smart as you_," He spits with ardent odium, "to connect those two. You're new, so I'll be nice and give you one warning: You _don't _sell drugs in Charming. We catch any more Oxy and I'll come back, but when I leave your face won't be so pretty - I don't give a shit who your Daddy is."

Frankie's smirk does not go away, instead it stretches into a full-blown smile that brightens her whole face, "I've got a counter offer. Tell your President to be at my apartment at seven sharp, I'll even make lasagna."

Unwillingly stunned by her ability to remain calm and confident, Happy does nothing when Frankie grabs her purse and laptop. He doesn't stop her from leaving the coffee shop. He doesn't follow her as she walks back up the street and drives away in her car.

In all of his years, he has yet to meet someone unmoved by his threats in the slightest.

She must take after her father in more ways than just appearance.

* * *

><p><span>Current Day:<span>

Freshly showered and dressed in her comfiest pajama's, an oversized pair of blue plaid fleece pants and a grey tank top, Frankie peels back the very edge of her curtains and takes a gander at the parking lot down below.

Happy has finally left.

He was still outside when she went into the shower, sitting in the driver's seat of her Charger and staring out the passenger's side window. What he was doing down there remains a mystery to her, but Frankie doesn't even try to comprehend. Throughout her time knowing him, Frankie has come to realize that most of what Happy does lacks an easily understandable motive.

Though Frankie tries to downplay the feeling in her gut, she wishes that he were still down there. Why? She's not sure.

She just does.

It's her damn guts making all these decision and creating all these undeniable feelings for her – things she rarely even understands herself.

Whether she'll ever admit it or not, this is one way her and Happy are similar. They both act on instinct, following whatever _feels _right. It's why Frankie knows without a shadow of a doubt that Happy's threats from tonight were for the most part empty. He might not be highly moral, but he does care for her in his own way. And though Frankie might not understand much about her stranger, she knows that Happy would not be able to hurt someone he cares about.

Combing her fingers through her wet hair, Frankie sits down on her couch and pulls a knee up to her chest. She fondly thinks back to one time when a certain hang-around at the Sons' bar, forever dubbed Dickhole McDickerson in her mind, kept putting his hands all over her. Mr. McDickerson hung around her all night like a bad odour, refusing to leave no matter how many times Frankie politely told him no. Somewhere along the night, Happy must've noticed Frankie's distress because he came over and literally threw Dickhole out of the bar, shouting obscene death threats the entire time.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

Four loud, impatient knuckle raps against her entry door pull Frankie from her memories. She quickly glances at her watch, wondering just who in the hell is knocking on her door at one o'clock in the morning.

Silently crossing the dark hardwood floors of her living room, she reaches the door then lifts up on onto her tip-toes and looks out the peephole. Happy stands on the other side of the door with his hands shoved into the pocket of his sweatshirt, dark brown eyes shifting about the length of the empty hallway.

Frankie takes the chain off her door and opens it, "Yeah?" She asks, leaning her temple against the side of the heavy front door.

Happy takes his left hand from his pocket and holds out Frankie's small ring of keys on the very tip of his finger. He shakes the keys, making them jingle like little Christmas bells.

"Oh, thanks." She takes back her keys and stares at them down in her olive hands for a second before looking back up at Happy. He may be a man of few words but right now it looks like he's all but jumping out of his skin, the need to say something making him antsy.

"Do you want to come in?" Frankie asks. The term 'famous last words' applies here.

Happy nods.

Frankie opens the door wider and steps to the side to allow Happy entrance, who hesitates slightly before crossing the threshold.

Once he's fully inside, Frankie shuts the door behind Happy and flips the lock. It's more habit than anything else, to always lock her door. That way there if she _always_ locks her door, she'll never forget. Not that locks can stop the truly determined, but it puts her at ease.

Happy makes himself right at home, walking into the kitchen and seemingly honing in on her liquor cabinet with a supernatural ability, pouring himself a drink of bourbon with one of the clean glasses from the drying rack by the sink. Frankie joins him in the modern kitchen, setting herself up a shot of Jaggermister.

"What are we drinkin' to?" She asks.

Happy gives her a wayward look from the corner of his eyes as if to ask if she's _really _going to have another drink.

And yes, yes she is.

Happy watches disapprovingly as she pops back her first shot, a reaction Frankie catches.

"My house." She says, grandly gesturing around the whole flat and affirming that Happy has no sway within the sunny yellow walls of her home.

Silently, Happy takes a sip of his drink then makes his way through the archway back into the living room – where he plops down onto the middle of her over-stuffed leather sofa.

"Holy shit, is this The Good, The Bad and The Ugly? I haven't seen this in years." Happy remarks as he sees the credits that are paused on the television set in front of the couch.

Frankie smiles wide and puts on her best Eastwood impersonation, fully completed as she makes a gun with her thumb and first two fingers, "You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig." Her Clint Eastwood impersonation is spot-on, even by superior standards.

Happy smiles, chuckling deeply, "That was good. Never thought I'd see the day a chick did a decent Blondie." He jokes.

Frankie light heartedly smacks him on the upper arm as she takes a seat beside him on the couch. In defense, she argues, "I used to be called Blondie back in high school."

"No way." Happy says with a shake of his head.

Frankie nods exuberantly, "For real! I know every line to this movie, and every other Eastwood flick, too!"

"I bet you fifty bucks you can't say every line of his in this." Happy says, absolutely sure of himself. He takes fifty dollars out of his wallet and smacks it down onto the coffee table.

"Oh, you are _so_ on! Get ready to lose, because if there's one thing I know, it's this movie." Frankie laughs.

The movie starts, and as Frankie whistles along to the opening theme and perfectly mouths the first lines of Clint Eastwood's, he realizes he's probably going to lose.

And he does. But Happy has never been happier to part with fifty dollars, because it is entirely worth coughing up the money to see Frankie mouth along to each and every word that Blondie speaks in the movie.

* * *

><p>"<em>How<em> could I cheat?" Frankie laughs, with her back turned to Happy as she rinses out their glasses in the deep stainless steel kitchen sink. Happy has been giving her a hard time over loosing, claiming ridiculous things like she wasn't really saying the real words – it was some sort of trick with the lighting. But it's all in good fun, harmless joking induced by elevated blood alcohol levels and the joy of watching a favourite movie.

"I don't know, but you did." Happy affirms from his vantage, leaning against the sleek black and stainless steel refrigerator behind her. She turns around, wiping her hands dry with a small hand towel before tossing it back onto the counter. She presses her back against the sink edge, gripping onto the lip of the granite counter tops with her elbows bent back.

"You know how bad I am at lying, does it look like I played you?" She asks.

Still smiling wide, Happy shakes his head 'no', "But there is no way anyone has watched that movie enough to memorize every single line!"

"Every Christmas for fifteen years."

"Are you shitting me?"

"No." Frankie laughs.

Happy laughs.

But then the laughter dies down and the atmosphere soon grows awkward with neither Frankie or Happy knowing what to say or do next.

"Sooo…." Frankie draws out, quickly rapping each finger against the stone counters individually to occupy the void.

Happy straightens up, nervously fixing his posture. He came in here with the distinct intention of telling her something rather important when he easily accepted _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly _as a distraction to save him from doing something he's not sure how to do.

"Doc…_Frankie…_" He releases a deep breath, overwhelmed by uncertainty.

Frankie slowly nods, her eyes diverted to the floor between her bare feet, "I know. You want me to leave Charming." She says quietly.

"No." Happy says quickly. Frankie looks back up, her perfectly curved dark brows furrowed up. Happy takes in a deep breath and tries to spit it out the only way he knows how – brutally honest and bordering on an incoherent tangent. But as his mouth opens, he can't remember a single word worth a god damn.

So instead of voicing how he feels, he decides to let actions speak louder.

He walks over to her and wraps his hand around the small of Frankie's back, somewhat roughly pulling her against his body. Frankie's round hazel eyes widen with surprise.

"Wha-"

Frankie is silenced when Happy leans down and kisses her, pressing his mouth into hers yet yearning for more. Frankie responds, her arms finding their way up Happy's back and around his shoulders.

Alcohol and bad boys may not mix, but that doesn't necessarily mean they cannot be enjoyed together.

In fact, it can be rather orgasmic to mix the volatile combination.

* * *

><p>Daylight pounding against her face and her brain instantly pounding against her skull, Frankie refuses to open her eyes as she wakes and opts to bury her face deeper into her good-smelling pillow. It doesn't smell like normal, like her Jasmine shampoo – it's familiar but Frankie doesn't pay much attention.<p>

She first stretches out her long legs, then her arms. However, as she stretches out her left arm her closed fist comes in contact with flesh.

Frankie's eyes snap open.

Carefully lifting her head from the pillow, and sure to keep her eyes narrowed against the bright sun flooding her bedroom, she cautiously takes a look at the position on her bed beside her. And shock, shock, surprise, surprise – Happy sleeps with one arm over his bare stomach and the other over his head next to her. Frankie takes a look down at herself, not surprised but slightly mortified to find that she is stark naked underneath her warm rose coloured bed sheets.

This is not good.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Frankie scrambles out of bed as quickly as she can without making the mattress buckle too much, hastily tugging on her bathrobe as she runs to the door to prevent the morning intruder from waking Happy.

She hurriedly yanks open her front door, pulling on the knob with one hand and smoothing down her long hair with the other.

Considering it's the day after Christmas, Frankie expected some sort of collector to be standing in the hallway, requesting the attention of her wallet.

The last thing in the world she expected, even more than waking up with Happy beside her, is for Clay, Tig and Chibs to be at her apartment.

"Who the fuck is knockin' on the damn door?" Happy sleepily calls from the bedroom.

This is not good. So very, very, very not good.

And that's probably why Frankie shrieks a muted _Oh my god_ into a hand she slaps over her face in order to hide the deep blush she feels coming on.

* * *

><p>Please review :)<p> 


	5. Cause for Alarm

Enjoy :)

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><p><span>One Year Ago:<span>

While flipping through her enormous record collection of mostly blues and jazz, Frankie's hips unconsciously sway in time to the warm sounds of Charles Bradley's _The World (Is Going Up In Flames)_ that smoothly crackles over the old record player in her living room. Her extensive vinyl collection includes, at last count, over 300 albums and takes up an entire wall of her spacious pale blue and warm brown living room. The records are put on display in open shelving for all too see, carefully arranged by date produced and artist. She thumbs through the records in a search for something fitting of the night, pulling out the occasional album only to crinkle her nose at it then put it back in its place. Frankie's not sure what she's looking for, but she'll know it when she sees and that obscurity makes for a difficult search.

Getting through the first half of the record wall, Frankie decides she needs a wine break. She thinks better with a little red wine in her. Or at least that's the excuse she creates.

Walking into the kitchen, her nose is immediately greeted by the hunger-inspiring delicious smells of fresh baked lasagna and hot bread. Taking a glance at the pasta cooling on top of the stove while pouring merlot into a large wine glass, Frankie decides that the MC President better get here soon, or she'll start without him. No matter how rude it may be, she's absolutely famished and there's no way that lasagna is lasting another ten minutes without fork-sized bites mysteriously going missing.

Frankie takes a sip of wine to quell the rumbling in her stomach and resumes her search for the perfect music. As she walks past the edge of the kitchen counter, her elbow knocks against her leather purse, knocking it onto the floor and spilling the contents within all over the pristine tile.

"_Shit."_ Frankie hisses under her breath. Placing the wineglass down, Frankie pulls up on her black trousers then squats down on her haunches to corral the mess on the floor back into her purse. Carelessly picking things up and throwing them back into her Michael Khors bag, Frankie comes across her large day planner, filled with the chicken scratch she calls her handwriting and freezes with her hand over the fateful day that stares back up at her. The day planner has landed on its spine and fallen open, giving way to a very unfortunate date.

October 2. It may not seem like an important date, but to Frankie it's the most important day of all. No matter how much she tries to forget.

And not just any October 2, but October 2, 2009. It was the day that round-house kicked the first domino.

Frankie remembers it well, too well in fact. Every time she thinks of that fateful day, the loop of memories re-plays like a vivid nightmare – leaving a sour aftertaste in her mouth. She can remember every single detail. She can remember how the sun was bright in a cloudless crisp blue sky and the wind was just-so, faintly blowing on the red, orange and yellow leaves of autumnal trees the way someone blows on the glowing tip of an incense to reignite a smoldering heat. She can remember how the day smelt of camp fire and pumpkin spice.

She can remember the sound of her Christian Louboutin high-heels click-clacking against the expensive marble in the foyer of her Beacon Hill home.

She can remember the sound of her screams echoing off the cream coloured walls. The house, with a wide open floor plan, always had weird acoustics, making the tiniest squeak of a mouse loud as a jackhammer, but it never truly hit her until that day when her scream rung out like church bells in her own head. She remembers the crimson, the horrible shade of glistening red that worked its way onto everything – the wall, the ceiling, the floor... and later, her hands. She can remember her father gripping her by the shoulders when she burst into full-blown hysterics, ending in a stinging slap to the cheek that rendered her mute.

She can remember how heavy the bodies were as they carried them down the narrow steps into the basement.

Frankie remembers it all so well.

She remembers how long the bodies took to be cut into small pieces so they could easily be transported – three hours, forty-seven minutes and nine seconds. How long and silent the tense ride was up to New Hampshire, up to her families summer retreat on Stinson Lake – two hours, twenty minutes and fifty-one seconds. How long it took for the bodies to burn….

Up until October 2, Frankie knew what her father did but chose to never ask a single question. She was wholly content with being ignorant. But on that day, with the eyes of one of the ever-nameless murder victims staring right at her, Frankie could no longer deny the truth – not with it looking her dead-on.

She tried hard to forget about the events that transpired on October 2, 2009 but they were already forever branded into her memory. She got drunk. She got high. She became an addict – all to try and erase that day from her brain's rolodex.

But none of it worked. No matter how obliterated she got, whenever she closed her eyes all she could see were the nameless faces of three men burning in the tall pyre on the very ground where she used to play in her innocent youth.

It took a year of irreversible liver damage for Frankie to come to terms with what she knew had to be done in the depths of her righteous soul. At that time she didn't care about the repercussions of turning in her own father, she just wanted to be able to sleep at night without the imaginary crack of sawed-through bone startling her awake in the middle of the night.

She expected to be jailed for the rest of her miserable existence, something Frankie knew she deserved for her unwilling but unforgiveable role in the abhorrent deeds of October 2, 2009.

And though she was not jailed behind iron bars, in many ways she was put into a much worse prison. A prison where they strip you of your very identity. A prison where you can never again contact anyone you've ever cared about. A prison that you can never be released from, because it is the prison of your life.

She was Wit-Sec ID number 43876290, relocated to Gadeston, Alabama.

That_ was_ until another very fateful night.

You see, the problem with being in the witness protection program is that there's always some sort of paper-trail left behind. With enough money and the right official desperate for a quick pay-day, there's _always_ a way to find out who and where you are.

Her handlers ensured her that she would be protected, ensured her that she would be safe. Well, the dumbasses were wrong. Very, very, very wrong.

Someone broke into her small ranch-style house in the middle of the night and held a knife to her throat when she went into the kitchen to inspect the sound of breaking glass she too easily mistook for cracking bone.

Frankie begged the masked man to do it. Even though she had done the right thing, even though she had told the police quite literally where the bodies were buried – even though Frankie had done anything imaginable to redeem herself, she still could not sleep at night.

Smelling the man's faint odour of faded Oldspice and tobacco as he pressed his body against hers and with the razor sharp edge of his knife against her throat, making her voice high-pitched and quivering, she begged him to end it all. She begged the would-be murderer to finally let her sleep. She begged him to at long last let her rest in peace.

But he didn't. He let her go, leaving her stunned to silence with only a knick on her neck and a vile feeling in her stomach.

Why did he release her? Frankie has no idea and she can't even begin to fathom. The masked intruder's motives will forever be a mystery shrouded in obscurity and wrapped in an enigma. But Frankie suspects it was to make her live another day, a punishment far worse than any gruesome death.

With her in the wind as the only witness, the case against her father crumbled into oblivion. There was never a trial, never even a grand-jury indictment. He's free on the streets, surely committing more atrocities against humanity while she hides behind the name Frankie thousands of miles away.

Yet she can't bring herself to pick up the phone and turn herself in. She tried that already and it did nothing to redeem her tainted soul.

So now, Frankie's going back to what she knows best.

Pretending that nothing happened at all.

Like a god damn etch-a-sketch being shaken, Frankie tells herself over and over that October 2 is just another meaningless day on the calendar.

She remembers October 2, 2009 well. It was the day the International Olympic Committee gave the 2016 Olympics to Brazil.

* * *

><p><span>Current Day:<span>

Clay, Tig and Chibs stand outside her apartment while Happy lie in her bed.

This is not a situation Frankie knows how to handle. So she panics.

Frankie slams the door in Clay's face, just as Happy staggers out of her bedroom, boxers thankfully on, lightly scratching at his stomach. He has to squint against the sun bouncing around in her bright apartment and decides to take a bathroom detour to find some Excedrin.

"Whose t'at?" Happy tiredly mumbles.

Frankie swallows hard, creating a visible bob in her throat, "Clay." Her voice sounds is high-pitched and strangled, "And Tig… And Chibs… Oh my god!"

Inside of the bathroom, Happy fumbles with the clear green pill bottle when Frankie tells him who's at the door, dropping it. White caplets stamped with singular _E's_ spill into the pedestal sink and onto the octagonal porcelain tile flooring.

But he leaves them there. Much more important things at hand.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._ "Doc!" Clay demands entry.

"What do I do?" Frankie frantically squeals.

Headache exponentially worse, Happy says a hurried, "Let them in" as he goes back into the bedroom to get fully dressed.

"Well, what are they doing here!"

Breathing deep to relieve some agitation, Happy replies, "I have no idea."

"How did they even find out where I live? I didn't tell anyone that I moved!" Frankie asks. Happy sticks his head out of her bedroom doorway, looking at her with an irked eyebrow raised high.

Irritated in her own right, Frankie mumbles under her breath, _"Right_… You're the Sons. You just _know _these things."

Frankie takes her own deep breath, but it's more to give herself the strength to face the three bikers she just so rudely slammed the door on. Nervously and with a face more red than there is a fair definition for, Frankie cautiously opens the door.

"Hey guys… Umm, I kinda got company right now… soooo…" She draws out, voice wavering more than a fair deal.

Clay looks at her dryly, face dangerously pulled back into an articulate expression of annoyance.

"We need to talk." He snaps.

"Really? What about?" Frankie tries to play dumb but she's a horrible liar, and her high-pitched, squeaky voice completely betrays her.

Fingers spread wide, Clay places his hand on the door – well above Frankie's head, and gives a quick push that swings the door completely open. Frankie had been using her body to block their entrance, but with the door now wide-open Clay, Tig and Chibs easily side-step the slender woman and enter her apartment.

_3…2….1…._Frankie counts silently in her head as she closes the door.

"HAPPY! What the fuck, man? I've been trying to get that pussy for months, how did you manage to tap that?" Tig exclaims.

This time, Frankie slaps both hands over her face.

She should've stayed in bed.

* * *

><p>While trying to give the appearance of being busy making a fresh batch of coffee, Frankie carefully listens to the hushed words being exchanged between the four bikers in her living room. They're talking about her, obviously, but more importantly they're talking about her refusal to get back into the messy drug world.<p>

She can only make out bits and pieces of the quiet conversation that prove to confuse her more than give her answers.

When she goes through the kitchen archway into the living room to confront the group, the conversation abruptly stops as all eyes turn to her. All four stand in the center of her living room in a small circle. Clay smirks and knowing, cocky smirk. Tig stares directly at her chest – probably wondering what lies hidden just beneath the thin terry cloth of her bathrobe. Chibs has his sunglasses on and his arms over his chest, staring at some obscure spot with no discernable emotion other than a loathing for this general situation. Happy first looks at her, and then looks at the floor.

Frankie has a difficult time swallowing her worry.

"So… You guys wanted to talk?" Frankie starts.

"Why don't you take a seat?" Clay suggests, trying to be gentlemanly.

Frankie shakes her head, "I'm fine standing, thanks." But she doesn't actually mean the gratitude. In fact, it's quite the biting remark on her part, proving to be snide enough to irritate Clay furthur.

There's a barely noticeable tightening of Clay's cold eyes.

Frankie crosses her arms over her chest, instantly becoming astutely defensive in her own home.

"Sit." This time, the demand in his words is perfectly clear.

Frankie looks to Happy, some part of her hoping that he would be chivalrous and stick up for her. But he doesn't. Her new lover completely avoids her gaze and chooses to instead count the kernels on her pop corned ceiling. So, Frankie quietly takes a seat on her sofa, tightly pulling her mauve bathrobe closed as she gets swallowed by the thick leather cushions.

There's a brief moment of tense silence before Clay finally speaks up.

"I recently learned something very interesting," Clay starts, his voice airated with an unknown glee, "About your father."

A bitter scowl appears on Frankie's sculpted face, "Look, if this is about me making Oxy – you can forget it. I'm not going to do it." She has a harder time than she expected saying those denying words now that she's in Clay's close vicinity. Maybe it's the excruciating headache. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that she can clearly see the outline of a gun under his leather vest.

Clay smirks. He knew she was going to say that.

"See – about that, if you don't go back to work for me…" He pauses, grey eyes darkening in such a way that Frankie shivers, "I'll tell daddy dearest you're here in Charming. I'm sure he'd love to know where his most wanted is."

Frankie tries desperately not to show the overwhelming anxiety she feels deep in her stomach, and for the most part it's disguised. However, no amount of trickery could hide how panicked she truly is enough to convey the certain air of confidence she wishes to communicate.

"Go for it. I'm sure he would love to know how a bunch of pussy-ass bikers are threatening his only daughter." Frankie snaps, trying her best to be indimidating with the strongest card she has.

It doesn't work. Clay really does know.

More hostile and explosive than a nuclear bomb, Clay directs an angry finger at her, "That was a big fuckin' mistake, you don't ever insult my club!"

Frankie clenches her jaw so hard that it hurts her teeth and makes her headache pulsate.

Clay takes a step towards Frankie, but Happy sticks out a hand to hold him back. Clay glares over his shoulder at the younger male, clearly displeased with this certain act of insubordination.

"Give me a minute with her." Happy says. Clay's steal coloured eyes flash once between Happy and Frankie, obviously irate, before he begrudgingly stalks off into the other room – Chibs and Tig following on his heels.

Before Clay, Tig and Chibs are even out of earshot, Frankie says, "I'm not going to do it." She says this with a raised volume, just to make sure that everyone has heard her.

"_Goddamnit_! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Happy asks with a hushed shout.

He moves in close to her, Frankie again catching his humble scent of yesterday's old spice and tobacco.

The long succession of following dominos comes to a rest as everything clicks into place.

"Holy shit, it's _you._" Frankie breathes, utterly shocked.

With a certain urgency, Happy ignores her statement, "Doc, just do what Clay says and we can all go back to our lives as normal."

Frankie stares up at Happy, unblinking in her startling realization - Happy is the man who broke into her Gadeston abode.

Happy, too, comes to his own realization. Words and threats aren't going to get this dire situation through Frankie's thick skull. She's much too much of a stubborn person for anything other than actions to persuade her.

No matter how much Happy does not want to do what he's about to, he knows that this could be his only hail-Mary pass. It's the first thing that comes to mind as a guaranteed way to stop her from being put on the top of a very deadly list.

Unsuspectingly, Happy wraps his large hand tight around her throat and leans down so his mouth his close to her ear, "You _will_ do what Clay says. _Understand?_" He growls lowly.

His grip gets tighter and tighter with every passing second that Frankie does not respond. She makes no move to claw at his hand; she makes no attempt to stop the darkened SAMCRO Unholy One from choking her. Instead she looks right up at him, daring him to keep his hand there for the next few minutes until her heart ceases to beat.

Struggling to breath and unable to form any words with his hand crushing her windpipe, all Frankie can do is shake her head a firm 'no' in response. Happy releases her throat with a hard backward push that embeds her deeper into the crook of the sofa. She gasps for air, taking in wheezing breaths that make Happy's heart drop deep into his stomach.

There's no amount of sheer strength to remain void that could wash the betrayal from her hazel eyes. It proves to bother Happy more than he would like to let on, and in his need to remain stoic, he appears as an ominous being straight from the depths of Hell – ferocious and dangerous, undoubtedly capable of taking of her life with no remorse.

No matter how far from the truth that may be, that is how it plays and that is exactly how Frankie sees it.

Pushing his hail-Mary even further, Happy draws his gun and presses the muzzle deep into the center of Frankie's olive toned forehead.

Frankie's eyes flutter closed, a build up of moisture not quite enough to be a tear is forced out and pools in the corner of her right eye. She waits for oblivion, breathing raggid and worried.

She's scared.

But that doesn't make her reconsider.

Happy can't believe it. She is literally ready and willing to take the formula to the grave. Even with a gun against her head, she's scared but unable to give in.

He lowers his gun, sticking it back into his holster.

Frankie's hazel eyes open and when they do they are firmly and unforgivingly locked with Happy's dark brown orbs.

An uneasy moment passes.

"_Please_." Happy says his final, desperate plea so quietly that Frankie has to read his lips to understand. He's completely sincere, begging Frankie to give in so he doesn't have to do the one thing he without a doubt does not want to.

Right then, something changes in Frankie. It's small and unable to be placed, but something changes. Her face relaxes and her arms are no longer so tightly wound around her core.

She takes in a deep breath and readies herself to again say _no_, but no matter how loud she screams the word in her head, her lips will not move along.

She wants to look Happy right in the eye and tell him a forcible _NO _and mean it. She wants to stand her ground and refuse to deal her poison that claimed the lives of countless innocent people not too long ago.

She wants so badly to keep being strong.

But she's scared - more scared than she's even willing to let herself know. Happy's not nearly as adverse to the idea of her fatality as she assumed - she damn near pissed herself when he put a gun to her head.

She wants to say no. She desires more than anything the ability to remain unwavering in her refusal.

But she can't. She knows that one more _no_ will land her in the morgue and she's not ready to be sacrificed.

_So much for two more days..._

Slowly and regrettably, Frankie nods her agreement slowly with great reluctantance.

It makes her sick to her stomach.

But, hey, at least she's alive and able to get sick. That's something, right?

Wrong.

Because the feeling doesn't go away.

* * *

><p>Thoughts? Comments? Constructive criticism? Love it - Hate it? Let me know. :)<p> 


	6. Everything That Makes Me Sick

Author's Note (PLEASE READ): I was just recently in a very bad car accident in which the air bags deployed, breaking one of my fingers and the knuckle. I thankfully already had this written, but typing right now is very difficult and painful for me so it will be a while before I can fully write another chapter and get it uploaded. But who knows, maybe a whole bunch of really good reviews and reads will let me work through the pain ;) - speaking of which this story has reached 1,600 reads (that means 1,600 seperate people have read) and I get close to 500 individual readers (close to 900 hits) per chapter, so I again want to give my deepest gratitutdes to those of you who continue to read and review. It really means the world to me that people actually like this story. I have also gone through the previous chapters and fixed any typos I was able to find.

Enjoy ;)

* * *

><p>Chin resting on a curled fist, Frankie stares down at her dinner, a chicken Cesar salad with too much lettuce and not enough chicken, pushing the food around on the black plastic plate with the back of her fork. She doesn't even know why she got a chicken Cesar salad from the cafeteria today.<p>

She hates salad.

It was a food choice she wasn't even conscious of making – the overly green salad was just the first thing on the line she grabbed. Normally turkey sandwiches are the first thing on the line. Yet as much as Frankie would like to blame Bertha, the Ukranian food service worker with a pension for too much perfume, and Bertha's placement of dinner items today, Frankie knows it is not really Bertha's fault. All day Frankie has been in a daze, barely working on auto-pilot and blindly going through the motions of life without a second thought. Earlier today she almost gave one of her favourite regular patients, old Mr. Goldstein, a dose of penicillin – which was meant for the patient across the hall. Mr. Goldstein is allergic to penicillin and the reality that Frankie damn near killed her favourite patient doesn't even bother her, even though on a normal day it would send her into a downward spiral of second-guessing her every move.

But Frankie's not here today.

Leave a message after the sigh.

Frankie mutely sighs, pushing the plate of romaine lettuce away from her. She needs to go home – she is no good here today, not when she's working on the surgical recovery unit. Not when she could kill someone just because she hasn't fully checked-in mentally.

Frankie had been alone in the nurses break room up until now, something Frankie was rather grateful for, but as she readies herself to leave Jackie Freedman, a fellow RN who works the 3-11 shift, saunters in. Frankie considers herself good friends with Jackie, despite the fact that the slightly older brunette has an incessant need to talk non-stop for twenty-three and a half hours out of the day. But right now, Frankie is not in the mood for Jackie and her non-stop chatter – her high-pitched nasally voice, butchered by a thick Brooklyn accent, buzzing in her ear like a fucking insect that won't go away no matter how hard you swat it away.

"Hey there, Frannie." Jackie smiles, sliding into the seat across from her with her own lunch tray. Apparently _she _was smart enough to actually look for a turkey sandwich before grabbing the first thing on the line. Frankie does her best to smile back but it's obviously begrudgingly forced, falling despicably short of being friendly. Frankie hates being called Frannie almost as much as she hates salad. Everybody assumes that just because her name is Frankie, it _must _be short for Francesca. But it's not. The legal name on her driver's license is Frankie.

Not Francesca.

Not Fran.

Certainly not Frannie.

It's Frankie. F-R-A-N-K-I-E. Frankie. Capeche?

But Frankie stopped telling Jackie that her name isn't Fran a long time ago – somewhere after the twentieth time when she realized that no matter how politely she told Jackie her name wasn't Fran, it didn't matter. Jackie thinks she is Fran and there's no changing Jackie's mind.

She still thinks ambiguous means ambivalent. No matter how many times she has been corrected.

"Is it your time of the month?" Jackie asks, honest to the point of being rude like always. Jackie consistently has her heart in the right place but sometimes she just falls short on the delivery.

"No," Frankie sighs, "I've just… I've got a lot on my mind." Understatement of the year. Her carefully constructed world, ruled by disguising half-truths that keep her safely hidden behind an enigmatic veil, is crumbling. That puts quite the strain on her conscious.

Jackie opens her clear plastic lunch container with a loud snap, "Boy troubles?" She asks with a knowing half-smile.

No matter the magnitude of faults Frankie can pin-point in Jackie, and trust me – there's quite a laundry list there, Frankie does have to admit that Jackie is a good person and a surprisingly good friend with a finely tuned intuition.

"Yeah – I guess you could say that."

With her hands wrapped around the over-stuffed sandwich, Jackie pauses, putting it back into the container before speaking, "Was he too small?" She asks with a humourously crinkled nose, holding up her pinky finger at first completely straightened, then in slow-motion she curls her finger in – indicating a very small, very flaccid penis.

Frankie laughs with a slight snort, she can't help but not too, "No, it's nothing like that…"

"Is it day three and no call?" Jackie presses.

"_No_ – I just… I thought I knew him and…" Frankie stops because she has no idea how to finish.

Jackie nods gently, suddenly over washed by the understanding of _exactly _what Frankie is talking about despite the vagueness, "And now it's like you've seen Dr. Jeckyll's Mr. Hyde?" Jackie finishes Frankie's sentence.

Frankie nods, looking down at the disposable plastic fork she now twirls around between her fingers, "Yeah."

Jackie smiles comfortingly, "Well don't worry about a damn thing, _Shugah_. Tonight – me, you and _three_," she holds up three overly tanned fingers to visualize her emphatic point, "bottles of wine will fix everything."

"Really, now?" Frankie asks with a skeptical eyebrow raised high.

Jackie jerks her hand downward, physically waving off Frankie's skepticism, "Oh, yeah. It's an old Jewish remedy."

"Remedy for what?"

"Remedy for anything – that's for what. There's _nothing _in the universe that two women and _a lot _of wine can't fix." Jackie smiles, playfully winking one of her light brown eyes.

Frankie smiles also but hers is much more bereaved, "That actually sounds great, Jackie."

"It's _Jacquelyn_ now, not Jackie."

Frankie can't help but roll her large hazel eyes at the overwhelming irony of this situation, "You were fine with Jackie last week."

Jackie – _Jacquelyn_ smiles exuberantly, "Well, it's improper for a betrothed woman to go by a little girl's name."

_Stop trying to sound so smart, Jackie._ Is the immediate thought that follows, but then Frankie pauses, her olive-toned hand wrapped around a can of Diet Coke just before she was about to take a sip as the information penetrates her mind. And when it finally fully sinks in, "_Holy shit, _Mark _PROPOSED!_" She practically squeals. Mark is Jackie's on again, off again boyfriend of almost five years. Frankie always assumed the relationship would end for good after one of their notorious screaming matches. Never would she of been willing to bet the two would end up getting married. Equally arrested for domestic violence, maybe. But _never _engaged.

With an ear-to-ear smile gracing Jacquelyn's small heart-shaped faced, she nods with grand animation and thrusts out her left arm, demurely folding in her left hand to reveal the large diamond now on her ring finger. Womanly instincts kicking in, Frankie gently takes Jackie's hand in her own and rolls the elder woman's ring finger around – inspecting the beautiful 1.5-carat Princess cut diamond magnificently placed in a simple white gold setting.

"That's a beautiful ring – Congratulations, Jacquelyn!" Frankie smiles tenderly. She stretches over the round table and gives her friend a semi-awkward long-distance hug.

"Thank you, Fran! I told him if he didn't propose on my twenty-sixth birthday, we were through and… Well, he kinda scared the shit out of me because he went missing like the day before the deadline was up but… When he came back, he got down on one knee and told me that it only took him three hours to realize he couldn't spend another minute without me in his life – how romantic is that?" Jackie coos, lovingly looking at the ring on her finger. The smile on her face warms in an indescribable way, brightening everything about her. Jackie's exterior is warmed to a sultry perfection, heated by pure love – pure, undeniable happiness. And the true kind of happiness, the kind that truly warms you from your very soul.

It's a look Frankie knows will never grace her own sharply constructed face and a sudden spark of human jealously hits her deep in her gut like a sucker punch. She had not been expecting to be envious of any engaged individual, mess less Jacquelyn. Yet here she is, forcing a tight-lipped smile to show support for her friend, when all she really wants to do is go home and crawl into an expensive bottle of Scotch – something that she hasn't done in years. Well, except for Christmas night – but that doesn't count. Extenuating circumstances and all.

But Frankie tries to be happy for her friend because that's what friends do. Even when it's a god damn falsehood, they show support. Besides, Jacquelyn doesn't know that Frankie's world is on life-support. The Sons have always known _who _she is, but now they know the entire truth of her shameful existence and she is being blackmailed into doing their – _Clay's_ bidding. Frankie thought she could be strong and the fact that she is not some infallible do-gooder bothers her greatly.

She always liked to think herself as a head-strong person, immune to intimidation and always able to keep her mind focused on the big picture. But she's not. With the threat of death lurking directly over her head she caved like a scared child. Frankie keeps telling herself that she's only human. She keeps telling herself that anyone else would have given in a lot sooner than she did. She keeps telling herself that it's okay to be scared – that giving in under the circumstances she found herself in is not a mortal sin.

But she's a horrible liar – even in her mind. Even when trying to lie to herself, she can't make herself believe that it's okay.

Jacquelyn rambles on about the engagement but Frankie has tuned out her caustic voice – a skill that took six months to perfect. However, Frankie doesn't even have the mental strength to sit here in the nurses break room, politely smiling and giving the occasional musing of agreement or disagreement to give the illusion of paying full attention.

When Jackie stops to take a breath, a rarity in instances such as this, Frankie takes advantage of the seldom offered opportunity.

Quickly, Frankie says, "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I've really gotta get goin'. I'll see you after shift, though – your place, right?"

"Just like always, _Shuggah_." Jackie says. Frankie takes her bag off the back of the chair and slings it over her shoulder, making her escape as if bullets were nipping at her heels… Just like Happy the night they met.

"I'll bring the wine." Frankie calls, over her shoulder, on her way out.

"Get that really yummy VOGA Griggio, too!" Jacquelyn hollers.

Frankie waves an olive toned hand over her shoulder to relay understanding just before she takes the corner and disappears from sight all together.

Jackie slouches down into her chair, eyes diverting from the ring on her finger briefly to glance at Frankie's completely untouched meal. Frankie has an insatiable appetite and many times Jackie has wondered how it is that an impossibly slender Italian woman eats like… _four_ times her body weight daily and stays so thin. Occasionally the idea of bulimia floated into Jackie's mind, but Frankie has none of the obvious signs. She doesn't duck off to the bathroom after eating. There's no scarring on her knuckles. So Frankie is just one of those enviously lucky women, graced by a winning the genetic lottery, who can eat and eat and eat, but never gain a single pound.

And Frankie _loves _to eat. So for her to not eat anything at all…

"This is _so_ much more than _one _boy problem. I better pick up a whole freakin' cask." Jackie chuckles lightly to herself, finally digging into her sandwich.

* * *

><p>Frankie has dressed for a casual night of wine and bickering in dark, almost black, fitted skinny jeans, a slouchy navy blue cashmere sweater - clamped at her waist by a thin black belt, and her favourite Christian Louboutin pumps – the black peeptoe suede platforms with a five inch stiletto that add an instant dash of sass and romance. And yes, this is casual for Frankie. One thing she was unable to part with from her old life is her designer closet and a desire for anything stylish and overpriced.<p>

If Frankie pays less than $300 for a pair of shoes, she becomes wary of the purchase. This creates quite the strain on her bank account but considering the sheer magnitude of medical emergencies the Sons have, she can afford it. That's how it goes – her nursing job pays for her home and her bills, while her… extracurricular activities pay for her designer desires.

Frankie carefully balances the brown paper bag against her hip. It is surprisingly heavy, containing six – yes, six various bottles of red and white wine, because Frankie decided that three bottles of wine was not enough for the high amount of shitty experiences her and Jacquelyn are going to be dredging through tonight.

Slowly walking up the winding brick walkway to Jackie's small single-story Mediterranean inspired house, much like the ones who will find throughout Florida or SoCal – yet mostly foreign to Lodi, Frankie begins to wonder if this is really a good idea.

Jackie barely knows anything about Frankie's personal life and it seems unfair that all of a sudden when Frankie really needs someone to unload on that Jackie is her unwilling victim. While they may be close friends, Jackie is still in the dark about much of Frankie's life. She doesn't know that Frankie is really Athena DiGanggi. She doesn't know that Frankie is wrapped up in Oxy manufacturing. Jacquelyn doesn't know that Frankie is involved with the Sons of Anarchy.

Jacquelyn doesn't know that Frankie is basically one big, fat lie.

Frankie gets halfway up the walkway before she turns around, deciding to just go home and wallow by herself. But it's already too late - Jackie has flipped on her porch light and just before Frankie can make it to her car, she hears the wrought iron screen door open – followed directly by Jackie's irritating voice piercing through the calm December night.

"Get your skinny little ass in here." Jackie calls, lightheartedly.

"I was just going to get the smokes." Frankie hollers back, giving a believable excuse as to why she made a bee-line for her car just before she reached the front door.

"Naw – I already got 'em, now get in here!" Jackie chuckles, hurriedly waving her Italian friend over.

Neither Jackie nor Frankie smoke – with the exception of nights like this. It's usually just before the second bottle is opened that the duo turn into virtual chimneys – each of them smoking a pack, sometimes two, before the night is done.

Frankie sighs lightly; her heavy breath weighed down by reluctance and compunction, then puts on her most convincing smile and turns around. She again makes her way up the brick path, the heavy bag of bottles clanking together with her every step.

"How many bottles d'ya get?" Jackie asks mischievously.

Frankie smirks, "Six."

"Perfect! I got three; maybe we won't have to make another trip to the store." Jackie quips with a light, nasally laugh.

But Frankie has a gnawing feeling that even nine bottles of wine aren't going to fix a damn thing. It's worth a shot, though. At the very least, they'll get absolutely shit-faced and Frankie will temporarily feel better.

* * *

><p>Frankie groans, throwing her head against the backing of Jacquelyn's surprisingly comfortable suede sofa. Her long dark brown tresses cascade over the edge and quickly Jacquelyn's cat, a calico named Walter, comes up and starts playing with the ends of her hair – chewing, clawing and swatting away at the loose pieces of hair. Frankie ignores the weird feeling of her hair being pulled and pawed at completely. Not that she can feel much, anyway.<p>

There are four empty bottles of wine on the kitchen counter. Jackie is only on her third glass.

"I'm a god damn coward." Frankie mumbles, but it sounds more like "I'm a gad daymn cowahd". There is a direct correlation between how much she drinks and how heavy her Boston accent becomes. Right now, her usually perfectly articulated words are condensed, and for her to correctly pronounce any 'r' in this moment would be a feat truly greater than climbing Everest.

However, Jackie, being from New York where the accents aren't too different from Boston, understands her perfectly. With an exaggerated roll of her brown eyes Jackie starts, "_You?_ A _coward?_ Frannie, _you," _she pokes Frankie's upper arm,_ "_took on that guy in the ER who was all hopped up on PCP even when Dale the orderly was afraid to get involved." Dale is one of the orderlies who also works the 3-11 shift at St. Jude's. He is 6'2 and weighs in at a staggering 270lbs – and not a single pound of that is composed of a single fat cell. While he may be your stereotypical Strongman competitor, he is about as malicious as a teddy bear and does not like to hurt people. When a man last year, roughly 5'10 and 200lbs, came into the ER high on PCP and swinging an I.V. stand at anyone who tried to get close to him, Frankie stepped up and talked the man down in a calm voice until she was able to man-handle the makeshift weapon from him long enough for a fellow nurse to inject him with Lorzepam.

Frankie scoffs acrimoniously, "That wasn't bravery. That was stupidity."

"Eh, fine line." Jackie says with a shrug. She sits curled up into the corner of her tan suede sofa, legs crossed underneath the soft sage green throw blanket over her lap and a half-full glass of wine tenderly cupped with both her hands while Jacquelyn looks at her friend with concern. She's worried about Frankie – worried about how obviously distraught Frankie is. The turmoil gripping Frankie's soul is etched on her entire face. Frankie's full, blush-rose painted lips are downturned and slightly pursed; her dark and thick manicured eyebrows furrow up – a faint wrinkle appearing in the middle of her long forehead; even Frankie's bright, round hazel eyes have lost their brilliant luster as she blankly stares down at her now empty wineglass. It's more than apparent that Frankie needs some sort of help and Jackie is more than willing to offer any sort of assistance imaginable. After all, whenever Jackie has needed _anything, _Frankie has always been the first one to step up and lend a helping hand. But much like Frankie's lips are physically pursed, they are also metaphorically pursed – she has yet to divulge anything that would provide even the smallest of hints as to what is going on in that head of hers, with the exception of her ridiculous proclamation of cowardess.

Frankie sighs, long and withdrawn, as she places an arm over her face and uses the crook of her elbow to cover her eyes. The night is not going as planned - not that Frankie had much of a plan, but she was at least hoping she would be able to work out what's going on in her mind with Jackie. She was at least hoping that talking things over with Jacquelyn would provide some insight into what she should do. But she can't even begin to open up about her current moral predicament.

Frankie sits up, bringing her knees close to her chest and resting her chin on her right patella. Walter sounds off an annoyed high-pitched meow that his most recent play toy has been taken away before stalking off into the nearby kitchen..

"I'm in trouble." Frankie deadpans.

Mid-sip, Jackie puts her wineglass back down on the small table to the right of the sofa's arm rest, "What kind of trouble?" She asks, relieved that Frankie is finally opening up. Getting Frankie to open up is harder than cracking a Fort Knox safe. In the year and a half that the two females have been friends, Jacquelyn still barely knows anything about her save for Frankie's love of good wine and expensive shoes – which are things that _anyone _can deduce.

Frankie gently shakes her head, indicating that she still doesn't want to get into details, "That's not really important…. I just need you to do something for me."

With a deeply wrinkled brow, Jackie inspects Frankie for a long moment – worried about the severe nature with which Frankie speaks. "Sure, anything," She finally says with a grand nod, "What do you need me to do?"

Frankie stares down at her long painted navy blue nails – chipping away at the buildup of polish near her cuticle, giving herself more time to think. She's trying to be compendious about what she needs, but so far that's not working so well.

Frankie doesn't look up from her nails, and her voice is weak – on the verge of wavering like she's sobbing, "If anything happens to me, I have a storage unit at Brown's Storage under the name Charlotte Becker here in Lodi –"

"Fran, what the hell do you mean if _something _happens to you?" Jackie shouts, not caring in the least that she just interrupted Frankie right when she built up the nerves to speak.

Frankie rolls her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Tries not to duct tape Jackie's mouth shut.

With more hostility than Frankie intends, she starts again, "If _anything _happens to me, go to Brown's Storage and open the fuckin' locker – make sure the police get what's inside, alright?"

Jackie's soft face pulls back, "Only if you tell me what's going on."

For a moment Frankie looks like she's going to. And for the briefest of instances, Frankie really does want to. But then she realizes that telling Jackie everything that is transpiring would only get Jackie involved in the gigantic mess – therefore putting her in the dangers way. Sometimes knowledge really is the most dangerous thing of all, especially when that knowledge is of a nefarious origin.

And more importantly, it's especially dangerous when that specific knowledge is about the Sons and about how Frankie has decided that being a coward is not acceptable. If Frankie were to tell Jackie what has made her so distressed and what Frankie is going to do to rectify that feeling and its accompanying situation, Jackie would say in that high-pitched Brooklyn voice of hers that it's the stupidest thing she's ever heard of.

And Jacquelyn would be correct. What Frankie's going to do is absurd. What she is going to do is without a doubt preposterous, absolutely asinine by any opinion.

But it needs to be done and that's all that really matters. The Sons need to be stopped. _Clay _needs to be stopped.

Frankie will not be coward any longer. Even though she is scared, scared in way that was completely unknown to her and is still foreign, there are issues at hand far more important than her pathetic fears.

And _that_ is the very definition of bravery – Not the lack of fear but the realization that there is something more important.

Or it could still be stupidity. Fine line and all.

Frankie puts her wineglass down onto Jackie's coffee table and stands – nearly falling over in an attempt to stay steady on her two feet, so she shakily takes off her high heels and tucks them under her arm. With Jacquelyn focused on her, Frankie then quickly grabs her brown leather purse from off the floor and maneuvers around Jackie's crowded living room, practically bolting for the door – leaving Jackie even more confused.

Worried and frantic, Jackie yelps, "Fran? Where are you going?"

With her back turned to the older woman on the couch, Frankie's face angrily contorts. She turns around slowly and deliberately, glaring at Jackie from across the living room.

"It's Frankie." She says through a clenched jaw.

"_What?"_

"My name isn't fucking Fran or Frannie - It's Frankie!" She snaps, barely under a shout.

Stunned, Jackie blinks slowly, beyond perplexed at the sudden turn in her friends demeanor.

"Unit 762. Charlotte Becker – the key is taped under a false bottom in my work locker." Frankie says quickly with one last cold glare through narrowed eyes that proves to linger even after she darts outside, leaving Jackie shivering on her couch with a bad feeling eating away at the pit of her stomach.

Frankie is going to stop the Sons. She is going to put an end to their violent grip on Charming. She is going to make sure that they can never again cause harm.

Being a nurse most often called upon when someone gets injured while committing a crime has given her unique knowledge of their wrong-doing. She knows more about the club than any other outsider has before, and not through specific conversations about their dirty deeds – but through clever deductive reasoning. After all, when a warehouse blows up three towns over, with nine people still inside, and she's called to take care of Opie who has second degree burns, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the two are connected.

Frankie knows more than the Sons think she does. She knows where the bodies are buried, both figurative and literal.

She knows how to make the spiteful Gods of Charming fall.

* * *

><p>Please let me know what you think! :)<p> 


	7. Viva la Anarchy!

A/N: Yay! Finally an update!

I need to pose a question to you readers. I started _A Gentlemen's Coup_ with the intent of essentially telling two stories together, the first being how the Sons got into selling Oxy and the second being the coup but now I think that may just be a bit too much for one tale. I'm worried that everything going on is going to bog down the story and be confusing. So my question for you is this: Should I keep telling two stories at once? Should I only tell the present story (about the Coup)? Should I only tell the past story (about how they got the Oxy) or this - talk about the coup now and perhaps do flashbacks occasionally to show the action and just explain the information needed to understand. I'm open to any other ideas, too. I look forward to hearing your responses!

Also, I've grown unhappy with the early chapters of this story so over the next week or so I will be going back through all previous chapters and vamping them up.

Enjoy ;)

**Chapter 7: Viva la Anarchy!**

* * *

><p><em>One Year Ago<em>

As Frankie pours her third serving of merlot into a carefully tilted Waterford wineglass, her head languidly bobs along to her favourite Charlie Parker album. The crystal wineglass is large, able to hold almost sixteen ounces, and Frankie allows the waterfall of 1996 vintage merlot cascade from bottle to glass until it reaches the brim before bringing it up right. Her rose gold watch is on her left wrist, over the long sleeves of her dress which extend well past her knuckles, and as Frankie brings the chalice up to her lips to take a sip her hazel eyes are drawn to the beautiful time-telling piece of jewelry. The wristwatch is what is now being referred to as a 'boyfriend' watch, meaning that while being a woman's watch the face plate is the same size as a men's watch. The entire watch is rose gold – a beautiful shade that is a little more gold than copper coloured with a white backing to the face and diamonds accentuating the numbers and all along the bezel. It is a watch that her father had specially made for her as a present for graduating nursing school when she was twenty-one. There's an engraving on the back, a simple yet eloquent statement that Frankie loves. _Invoke __Your __Name, __Athena._ It was her father's way of telling her to always be wise, strong and courageous. Frankie loves her birth given name. It was her mother's idea to name her Athena for the distinct intention of what her father engraved on her watch. And in many ways, Frankie tries desperately to live up to the ancient Goddess.

But all that is irrelevant; little details that Frankie barely notices or recalls because she's too concerned with the specifics of what her watch is telling her.

It's 7:35.

With a sip of wine that is more of a discrete gulp, Frankie also swallows down the irritation that has gradually been building in her stomach for the past forty-five minutes. In this life she subscribes to, a life operated outside of established laws but bound by respect, time ideals are skewed. If you're early – you're on time. If you're on time – you're late.

And if you're late?

You damn well better be dead or dying.

As much as Frankie may despise her father after refusing to be content with ignorance; as much as she may think he is the devil incarnate ever since she walked in on the immediate aftermath of him murdering four people, Frankie does have to admit that her father does at least one thing well – _very_well. And that thing is business, the sort of _respectful_ business all about the benjamins that is a key component in _this __life_. He had a list of ten things that he used as a navigation system for running his syndicate; ten practices and ideals that her father used to practically raise The Family from the dead and turn it into a thriving, highly profitable organization. He called them _the __ten __commandments_, ten things requiring strict adhesion at all times in order for not only the family business to flourish but for each individual person to also achieve prosperity. His ten commandments were more of ten morals and considering that Frankie had listened to him recite random commandments when the times called for it since she can remember, she still adheres to all the rules.

Commandment number three is always be early for a meeting.

It rightly pisses her the fuck off that Happy's President has yet to show. His tardiness is a personal insult; insinuating that he holds little to no respect for her. Now, she's not expecting a high level of respect from him but she at least assumed that considering he knows exactly who she is that he would at least have enough respect to show up on time – especially since she spent the better part of her afternoon making her famous lasagna from scratch, using an old recipe of her great-grandmother's long since committed to memory.

Frankie takes another big gulp of wine poorly disguised as a long sip as walks back into the living room to resume her reading.

However, even when Frankie curls up into her extremely comfortable suede sofa with her wine in one hand and _Cat__'__s__Cradle_ in the other she finds herself even more anxious and irritated, unable to read more than three sentences. With an exaggerated exhale to try and release some of her internal pressure, Frankie throws the old yellowed book down onto the sofa – dramatically so like a three-year-old only split seconds away from throwing a full-blown temper tantrum.

"Call down, Athena." She tells herself – much to her surprise. She has not referred to herself as Athena for quite some time and uttering the familiar yet entirely alien name momentarily hiccups her burning anger.

But it's just not quite long enough to count.

Frankie wonders if the President's increasing tardiness is because she is a woman. In _this__life_ women are just not taken seriously. It's an unfortunate truth found in most male dominated fields that is exponentially worse in the criminal realm. Women just aren't viewed as threatening or powerful enough to even register as little blips on the radar of importance. She never had to deal with this aspect back in Boston. Everyone knew she was Angelo DiGanggi's daughter and that instantly gave her enough credit to be taken seriously. So far in California she has been on her own, pirating the raw materials and stamping the black market pills by herself – something that she is hoping to change with this meeting.

She has yet to face the adversity of being born without a penis in the ultimate boys club. It is most definitely something she does not want to experience any longer, this feeling of being inadequate and undeserving of respect just because she is a woman – even though this reasoning is completely an assumption based on the lack of the Sons of Anarchy in her home.

_So __much __for __the __twenty-first __century __and __equality,_ Frankie bitterly thinks to herself as she takes yet another gulp of wine she doesn't bother to disguise.

Unable to bear fermenting in her own irritating woes any longer, Frankie opts to primp for what has to be the fifth time tonight instead of spending another moment untruthfully wishing she were born with a Y-chromosome.

Her 1920's apartment is spacious, well-lit and elegantly decorated with an antiqued Parisian flair – from the chandelier reminiscent lamps on either side of the couch to the three foot-by- four foot mirror in an antique gold frame on the mantle of her bricked-up fireplace painted a crisp white that she uses to primp. The mirror is usually just a little too high place for Frankie to use it in a form such as this – you know, _actually_seeing all of herself, but she wears her favourite Jimmy Choo's – a pair of black patent leather Mary-Jane style heels with a wide strap held together by a thin string tied into a perfect bow with ankle-breaking six inch stilettos. The added height places her just over the six-foot mark resulting in Frankie's reflection being more than adequately visible to herself. Her choice of footwear for the evening was a highly conscious decision. She had been expecting _some_vagina-induced adversity from the President of an all-male 1% MC and using the statistic that the average American male is between 5'10 and 5'11 she wanted to be over six feet. It's a subliminal psychological message for a man to literally have to look up to a woman, making her appear more prominent and powerful.

Every microscopic aspect of her appearance was carefully planned for tonight in order to invoke a specific image – a modern day Athena. She wears a mossy green sweater dress with a slouchy turtle neck and long sleeves that extend past her knuckles. The curve-hugging dress falls just above her knees, giving way to her dark grey textured tights, the kind that while covering ones legs like tights are supposed to have wide openings between the thick knitted wave patterns. Her olive toned flesh peaks through the gaps in the synthetic wool blend tights. For jewelry she has kept it simple: her rose-gold watch, 1-karat diamond stud earrings in her first hole of four in each ear – the other ear piercings free of jewelry, and a tiffany's-style key necklace littered with diamonds chips down the key's spine which sparkle and one .75 karat diamond within each of the three circles on the tab of the key.

Every bit of her appearance was carefully planned for this evening – she must have put on seven different outfits before deciding on the one she now wears, which ironically was the very first one she picked out. Sometimes she listens to her gut on the first go, other times she doesn't…

Frankie craves to convey someone who is feminine but powerful – a sophisticated woman who sits behind a maple wood desk in her large corner office of a fortune-500 company, degrees from Harvard on the wall behind her and the title of CEO after her name engraved on the door.

Thankfully, that is exactly how she looks – powerful, strong, wise and very 21st-century Athena. Her mahogany brown hair is pulled back into a sleek pony-tail placed high up on the back of her head with ends brushing against the area between her shoulder blades. With her hair up it completely exposes her face, showcasing her undeniably remarkable bone structure: skyscraper cheek bones dusted with just the right amount of Nars Orgasm blush – a beautiful peachy pink shade with a golden shimmer. Her jaw is a strong inwardly angled line with a rounded chin that brushes against the top of her dress – the soft cashmere fabric slightly tickling the underside of her chin. Her nose is long with a small bump on her bridge that gradually gives to a subtle upward curvature of the tip – from her left nostril a small diamond stud sparkles as it catches the light from the five Parisian inspired lamps throughout her living room. Aside from her ears, the spare hole in her nose is the only piercing she has. She got it pierced the day she turned eighteen and it is something Frankie takes great pleasure in. She perpetually keeps a small diamond stud in the piercing, muting the mutilation of her nostril so much that the only time it is noticeable is instances such as this where it catches the ambient lighting. Not wanting to look like a cheap floosy, Frankie did not apply much make-up to her round hazel eyes – just some chocolaty brown eyeliner smudged along her upper lids with a dusting of light gold-toned eye shadow on her lids and a slightly darker shade into her creases. Frankie is extremely grateful that she is without a doubt one of those people who are blessed with good looks because she does not need much make-up – most of the time she can go without and look just as photograph ready as she does now. While she may mostly take after her father, with the same facial structure and eye colour, it is little things like her good skin and her ability to retain an optimal weight of 140 pounds for her 5'7 frame no matter what she does to her body, things that Frankie inherited from her Lebanese mother – a woman who in her youth was an international model. Her mother was a breathtakingly gorgeous woman with insanely thick hair the colour of ink and skin of caramel who always smelt of fresh flowers.

To starve off any further tear-inducing thoughts of her mother, Frankie polishes off her glass of wine before finishing her primping with a quick coat of dark red lipstick across her full lips – a luscious wine colour reminiscent of the best-tasting Bordeaux. Blotting the excess with a napkin, Frankie decides, yet again, that she is ready and looking fantastic as ever.

It is not just tonight that has made Frankie crave a high aesthetic value. She is not shallow about looks but admittedly has an insatiable need to always look her best. It's the sort of thinking meant to hide any flaws for a full twenty-four hours of the day – the sort of idea that if she looks like a million dollars on the outside, maybe she won't feel like a worthless piece of shit on the inside.

But for tonight in specific, Frankie _needs _to look _perfect_ in order to psychologically disguise anything else she may be lacking. You know – like a penis. Or the ability to lie.

Bitterly, Frankie reminds herself of the age-old saying that life isn't fair. And it's true - no one ever said life is fair or even that it makes any sense.

The fact that she is a woman is only the first and most obvious deficiency Frankie has for _the __life._ The second major deficit being that she is a horrible liar and always has been. Whenever she lies her voice gets all tense and high-pitched and her blood pressure rises, making her heart beat damn near deafening to herself – something that Frankie constantly fears other people can hear.

Now, normally having no deceptive skills to speak of would be considered an endearing trait. But not to Frankie. She fucking hates the fact that she can't even say she bought whole-milk instead of two-percent. She views her inability to create a decent verbal forgery as not only a weakness but her _biggest _flaw – a flaw that can prove to be fatal in a world where lying is a necessity of survival.

Although, much in the likeness that when you lose one sense your others become hyper-active, Frankie's inability to lie has forced her to become an expert at avoidance, withholding and pretending. She can side-step a question better than any politician. She can speak the truth without speaking the whole truth, allowing wrong assumptions and inferences to be made. She can project a cocky _so-what? _attitude better than anyone.

It's ironic that for how horrible of a liar she is, she's really fucking good at relaying subliminal fraudulences. Her appearance is a lie; her name is a lie; her life is lie.

Frankie takes another look at her watch, practically mortified that it is almost eight p.m.

At this point, she is beginning to doubt that Happy actually extended her business dinner invitation to his President.

Happy… There is something about him undeniably familiar even though Frankie denied it during their first meeting. Maybe it's just the fact the he himself reminds her so much of the men working under her father whom she knew back in Boston. Happy has the same sort of innate, inexplicable danger radiating off of everything about him - his posture, his words and most importantly, his almost-black eyes that seem ripped straight from a Steven King novel which scream evil. Happy has the same unshakeable stoic foundation she grew up around. It is the qualities obvious in her stranger that are an unwritten requirement of holding a position within the DiGanggi syndicate.

Yet as Frankie checks the temperature of the lasagna still cooling on top of the stove with a gentle finger pad, she is wholly aware of the nagging feeling in her stomach which tells her that explanation, the "he just has one of those faces" sort of explanation, does not fully cover the scope of her stranger's familiarity.

Frankie sighs, finding that the lasagna has cooled to an inedible degree. She quickly pops it back in the oven to bring it back up to a suitable level – her stomach growling loudly in protest.

But she's going to wait just a little longer. She does not want to give up on the Sons of Anarchy just yet.

Frankie retakes her seat on the suede couch on the south wall of her apartment – a wall that is nothing more than a solid row of square window panes free of trim or streak. She sits on one bent leg while the other swings slightly as she rests her head against the backing of her sofa. She allows her eyes to drift closed, forcing herself to push her irritation and anxiety into a deeper corner of her mind as she focuses on Charlie Parker.

Frankie tries to listen to the sounds of legendary Charlie Parker smoothly crackling over her record player that fills her apartment to the brim with warm jazz – creating the perfect atmosphere to allow her to relax a little. Falling in love with Bird's playing all over again, Frankie lets her mind wander as wine-induced warmth begins to grow in her cheeks.

Simply allowing her mind to venture out and follow whatever path it just so happens to, Frankie quickly finds herself contemplating just how she got to this place in her life. She never wanted to know what her father did. She never wanted to produce black market narcotics. She never wanted to be in the position that she is – sitting on her couch, waiting for a bunch of bikers to arrive so that she can convince them to help her illegal business thrive. Yet here she is, at a complete loss as to how her life deviated from every expectation she had – much like the unexplained phenomenon where you catch yourself in your drive-way at the end of the day but do not fully remember the drive home. One thing in her life just kept leading to another, leaving an incoherent splattering of stops along the map of her life that she can barely understand.

How did she go from being a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed college graduate with an prestigious RN position lined up a Mass General to being a drug dealer completely alienated from her close-knitted family through her own unforgivable actions with a very low-paying RN position at Saint Jude's?

Frankie doesn't have a coherent answer. Everything just went so wrong so fast that it left her dizzy – still trying to regain solid footing all these years and all these miles later.

She knows for certain that she blackmailed a Purdue pharmaceutical chemist into giving her the formula after she became addicted to the pills and decided she didn't want to pay sixty-dollars for a one-time high anymore; she knows for certain that she snitched on her father because she thought it was the right thing to do – and she knows for certain that she was proven horribly wrong; she knows for certain that she was in the witness protection program and that she fled after some idiotically merciful hitman let her go; she knows for certain that she fled to California, to a town named Charming so small that not even people in California know it exists; she knows for certain that she started selling her brand of OxyContin that was previously only for personal consumption in order to make enough money to live on; she knows for certain that people in California can't get enough of her little pills; she knows for certain that she saved a stranger one night at an abandoned warehouse; she knows for certain that she is anxiously awaiting the President of an outlaw MC to arrive at her house so she can hopefully convince him to help her deal with the growth of her one-woman operation.

She knows all of that – she knows each and every step she took but she just can't believe that this is where she has wound up.

She can't believe that at twenty-three years old she already feels like she has lived a lifetime that she can't remember, like she is stricken with Alzheimer's.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Being so caught up in her own mind, the loud rapping of knuckles against her door prove to be jarring enough to startle Frankie who jumps up nearly a foot off of the couch.

Placing a calming hand over the side of her face, Frankie takes in a series of deep breaths to settle her frantic nerves.

Considering that the sofa cushions are deep and overstuffed, almost swallowing Frankie whole, she has to wiggle herself forward to get up – shakily so.

Drinking and six-inch heels don't mix. Frankie says a long list of obscenities under her breath, damning herself for getting buzzed when she needs a completely clear head for this introductory meeting.

Frankie pauses with on hand on the knob, the other olive toned hand doing a quick smoothing sweep over her tightly pulled back hair to tame any unlikely frizz that has accumulated since her last grooming session.

She swings open the door, forcing a warm smile on her face, "I'm glad you could make it."

In front of her stand four men – one of them Happy, though he stands at the far back of the small group, almost invisible amidst the three males in Frankie's immediate vicinity. The tall man directly in front of her is, at least as defined by his black leather vest, President of the Sons of Anarchy. He is a menacing height far taller than Frankie even in her heels with a rock-solid build – not muscular, but as firm and unforgiving as a stone wall. He has a long and wide wrinkled face, with white stubble extending all the way from under his nose to his throat and a wide bulbous nose that juts out. He has coiffed curly grey hair and intense eyes which look down at her that are the exact colour of blue steel – wrinkled around the edges from something Frankie doesn't believe to be smiling. Even though this man in front of her and her father could not look less alike, he is just as intimidating as Frankie remembers Angelo being.

Instantly staring upon the group, Frankie realizes that this motley motorcycle gang is no joke – they are the real one-percent deal.

To the President's right is a man far younger by comparison. This man is in his early thirties at the most with short dirty blond hair and a scratchy goatee covering his sharply angled chin. At perfect eye-leval with her, Frankie is instantly drawn to his eyes that are a slightly darker shade of blue than the President's - a blue-grey colour speckled with bits of even darker blue-grey and though they still have an ominous retention to their out-look, his soul windows seem far kinder than the Presidents. This man, who is identified as the Vice President by his cut, is without a doubt favorable to the President in Frankie's split-second first-impression. He even has a bit of a sense for fashion, wearing a pair bright white Adidas micropacers. This little detail about him also tells Frankie a great deal about the Sons of Anarchy. There were only 500 pairs of those particular sneakers made and each pair sells for over $500.

The Sons of Anarchy are definitely no joke. They must have power and influence as well as a vast network of connections and trades – just the sort of group Frankie needs.

To the President's left is a muscular man whose cut identifies him as the clubs Sargent-At-Arms. He is just slightly taller than she with too many rings on his fingers with heavily bitten nails. He has curly black hair pushed away from his face in such a way that it makes his slowly receding hairline more noticeable. It is unkempt and unwashed – visible greasy tracks in the dark tresses from him running his fingers through it, at a length just long enough to cover his ears. He has a long nose, obviously crooked from being broken once and not set properly to heal straight. His eyes which are the immediately noticed following her curiosity of whether or not it is possible to re-break his nose to make it straight are a shocking, abnormally icy blue – so icy in fact that Frankie shivers.

Blue. Blue. Blue. They all have blue eyes except for Happy. Except for her stranger whose eyes still seem more pupil than iris. She finds him at the back of the group and as she locks eyes with him for the quickest of lightning fast moments, she also finds a certain sense of calm. Though they do not know each other well, the little familiarity from their two meetings along with the undeniable unknown familiarity puts Frankie at ease.

All of this is noticed in the matter of milli-seconds and as Frankie sizes up the four bikers, they use the opportunity to do the same and that much is obvious. So obvious that any bit of ease Happy's presence granted her is instantly stolen from her.

"I'm Frankie, and you are – " Frankie sticks her right hand out for the President to shake it, purposefully leaving her sentence without an ending so he can fill in the blanks.

"I'm Clay, this here is Jax," He gestures to the blond Vice President, "Tig," A waving hand directed at the black haired man who has had his baby blues roaming all over Frankie's body since she first opened the door, "And you already know Haps." There is something unsaid from Clay – something that is spoken as his cold eyes lock with hers. A grateful look that silently thanks her for saving Happy's life, an indebted look that tells Frankie she is perhaps in their good graces even though Happy seemed rather adamant that his club detests people who deal drugs in their town.

Frankie gives Happy a small smile of his own and a slight nod of recognition as her greeting. He doesn't return it and Frankie doesn't spend the time to be concerned with that notion.

Frankie takes a step to the side, swinging the door wide open and then with a sweeping arm she gestures for everyone to enter. They filter in, instantly greeted by the warm smells of delicious food and apple spice scented candles burning away.

Being polite and strictly business as Frankie closes the door behind them she says, "Make yourselves at home while I put the food out, then we can discuss everything."

She leaves the men in her living room, walking through the wide archway into the kitchen to retrieve the lasagna and fresh baked bread.

Looking all around her home, "What exactly is it you want to discuss?" Clay asks.

"Business, Clay." Frankie says simply, her back turned as she bends down to pull the heavy casserole dish containing her famously delicious lasagna from the stove. Tig rises on his tip-toes and leans to one side to see into the kitchen – to see Frankie's ass as she bends down.

He smirks, turning to Happy with a mouth open and readying to voice his sexual interest. However, Happy stands beside him with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and the dry look on his face coupled with the singular, jerky shake of his head forces Tig's mouth to snap closed and a pout to appear.

Clay walks into the kitchen, his heavy-soled boots _thud-thud-thudding_ across the hardwood floors of the living room. He takes to leaning against a counter-top just as Frankie darts through a second archway into the kitchen to the dining room where she carefully places the hot dish on a thermal mat to protect her black wood dining table from scorching.

Clay waits for her to come back into the kitchen before speaking – and takes a few steps closer when she does so that only she can hear what he has to say.

"What exactly is your business?" Clay asks, both of his eyebrows raised high and his voice free of both hostility and glee but full of intrigue.

Frankie places all her weight onto one hip which pops out slightly as she crosses her arms under her chest. She looks him over once again – her eyes briefly flashing out into the living room where Jax, Tig and Happy figure out how to turn off her record player. Apparently, they're not fans of jazz.

_Bastards._

Frankie looks back to Clay, meeting his scrutinizing stare. She can sense that Clay is conniving and there is something unsaid about the majority opinions over drug dealing in Charming – after all, from what Happy tells her, they already know what she does, so Clay asking an essentially rhetorical question leaves Frankie with the vaguest notion of confusion, "I'm in the _family_ business." She doesn't want to give him a full, telling answer. At least not right now. All she wants right now is to eat – something that her stomach quickly partakes in vocalizing.

Hearing Frankie's clear insinuation Clay's eyebrow dart up again but only for the quickest of moments and Frankie _swears_ she can see a smirk buried somewhere under all those Shar-Pei reminiscent wrinkles.

* * *

><p>The dinner Frankie spent so long cooking was eaten.<p>

Actually, it was practically inhaled it was eaten so fast – but that gives Frankie a deep satisfaction. When people enjoy her cooking it never fails to give her a subtle joy that she rarely ever vocalizes. Tig, who has eaten four servings, has unbuttoned his black pants and as he leans back in his chair with one arm bent over the chair's backing, he pats his fully belly that spills over lap – a crooked, wholly satisfied smile on his face. Happy is in a similar situation to Tig – only instead of reveling in how absolutely stuffed he is, he finds the feeling a little uncomfortable. It was so delicious that he shoveled it into his mouth as fast as he could, leaving him with a severe case of eaters remorse.

Jax is the only one who did not eat too much. He sits comfortably in one of the black wood chairs with white and black damask cushions, sipping on the after-dinner coffee that Frankie has just finished pouring for everyone

"What you've got to understand, Athena-" Clay starts, but is quickly cut off by Frankie.

"It's Frankie."

Clay's face twitches as he tries not to show how much it bothers him to be interrupted – something that as President he is widely unaccustomed to, "What you've got to understand, _Frankie,_ is that we don't allow drugs in our town – much less sell them."

Frankie's signature coy smirk is curving up the edge of her lips, nodding along while nonchalantly tracing the rim of her half-full wineglass, "I understand. You have a lovely small town here and you want to preserve its innocence," Frankie has to make a conscious effort not to laugh at the irony of what she just said, "But here's what I propose," She takes a pause for dramatic effect, filling the silence by finishing off her wine, "I won't sell in Charming_, __but_ for a percentage of my business you allow me to work around town and let me… safely reside in your precious little dot on the map. We can consider those payments… _rent_ and if your club can help me secure my raw materials and ensure safe delivery there will be a _very __nice _bonus."

She seems so cute and sly; so confident and carefree about this sit-down.

Clay's eyebrow quirks with intrigue, "How much money are we talking about?"

Frankie smiles, but it's held back – she tries not to be so cocky or express just how pleased she is with his response, "Well, the specifics can be negotiated on but I think a smart businessman such as yourself realizes how great of a business opportunity this is – people _cannot _get enough Oxy and considering that I manufacture myself it's almost entirely profit. I make so much money right now that if I stay on this path and retire in ten years my great-grand-children with have trust funds set up for _their _great-grand-children."

That is clearly a surprising statement; varying degrees of wide-eyes and raised eyebrows look back at her.

Frankie takes the cloth napkin from her lap, placing the white wad beside her plate as she stands, "If you'll excuse me for a minute, please." Frankie says politely. She walks out of the dining room, off into the back where her bedroom is, her expensive heels click-clacking against the wood floors the entire time. She goes to retrieve the payment she had prepared earlier in the night – a little cotton paper motivation to get the Sons on her side.

The men in the dining room use Frankie's brief absence to their advantage.

Clay takes a brief moment to share a look with each of the men around him individually, "Thoughts?" he asks.

While everyone has something to say it is Tig who is the first to speak, practically falling over himself to voice just how good of a thing he thinks this is – he is no fool, he knows the kind of coin people like Frankie bring in, "If all we're doing is letting her work outside of Charming without us giving her any shit, I say we do it. I mean, we did it for the Mayans and that's worked well so far."

Jax nods along silently, looking down at his plate – agreeing but not fully willing to admit that he thinks this is a good idea, too. Especially considering how wrong he thinks it is to be muleing for the cartel.

No one else has time to say anything because Frankie is immediately back from her bedroom with a sealed manila envelope griped by two hands, clearly stuffed with bank notes from the obvious lines created by the bulging quantity.

She slides back into her seat across from Clay, the small smirk on her dark red lips now officially a permanent installment of her face. She holds the envelope up, "In this envelope is roughly five-percent of what I make in a month – it's what you could expect to see if you agree to our deal… For now we can consider this my," she rolls her hands around in the thin air, trying to bring forth the correct wording for what she's offering them – which in reality is nothing more than a simple bribe, "neighborhood membership fee." She finally decides on. A cute little scrunching of her nose completes her coy outlook as she hands the envelope over to Clay. With everyone else attentively watching Clay, he flashes a look between Frankie and the heavy amount of concealed money once before pulling up on the tab simply folded in on itself versus being glued shut for easy access.

He pulls out the money – visibly surprised to find seven stacks of banded money, 100's, 50's and 20's all lumped together. He flips through it with his thumb, trying to get a judge of how much there is.

"There's about forty-thousand dollars there." Frankie says. All eyes are now upon her.

They didn't need to hear anything else.

* * *

><p><em>Current Day<em>

Frankie walks down the narrow enclosed hallway inside Brown's storage facility, the fingers of her right hand perpetually brushing against the wall. She keeps her finger tips against the wall to give herself a spatial sense of awareness – something she is rather lacking in her still intoxicated state. She sways as she walks, the sound of her high-heeled footsteps echoing through the hallway sounding mismatched and jagged, nothing like the classy _click-clack_ of how her steps normally sound. There is a key ring with only one key hooked by the index finger of her left hand –a small brass toned key with a round tab and no visible markings etched into its surface. The key hooked by her finger is only one of two that have the correct jagged cuttings which correspond to the padlock on unit 762.

As she walks, the lighting of completely exposed fluorescent tubes flicker over her head to a hectic symphony – dancing to hectic, un-timed music. But what does she expect? This whole facility is run by a rather seedy looking Armenian man with greasy black hair and a stomach so large compared to the rest of his body that he waddles as opposed to walking. A man who always smells like burnt meat and body odor and prefers to have all payments in cash probably doesn't have adequate or even _working _lighting as a top priority. Frankie is fine with Mr. Petrosian's lack of care because for what this place lacks in aesthetics it far surpasses expectations in anonymity and safety – Frankie's _only _pragmatic priorities for the service this place provides.

Any important documents, plus one or two copies of each, are stored within her six-by-eight foot room with concrete walls and no windows. One of her father's ten commandments of how to conduct illicit business is to _always_know _everything_about anyone you're involved with – a commandment that by association means knowing the perfect way to black mail someone.

Commandment number 1: Everyone is your enemy – even if you think they're friendly. Always know everything about your enemy. Always have something to hold over their heads.

Frankie does not want to black-mail the Sons of Anarchy, however. Extortion would do no good in this scenario. If she threatens to black-mail them she's only more of a target…

Frankie tries not to remember the funeral. She tries not to let why that woman died come to the front of her mind. Poor, poor Old Lady got herself in over her head just because she knew too much. The club has become so morally bankrupt that knowledge can now constitute the murder of one of their own.

At least to Clay.

It is he that is the source of all evil and Frankie prays that her plan works – that with Clay shown for what he is the club will not be tolerant of such pure, unadulterated malice. She is going to play the last card she has, placing all her chips on the hope that the Sons will remove Clay from position at which point the Sons can return to their glory days.

Back to when they were still the good guys.

And if this doesn't work?

Well… that's why Frankie told Jackie where her storage locker was so that if this doesn't work and she winds up murdered like she inevitably will, maybe the police can make something stick; it's her contingency plan.

Frankie is not as close to the club as _she_ was. No matter how bad Happy may not want to claim her life there will be no questioning Clay's orders the Sons take her as a rat – as a threat, instead of someone whose trying to correct the wrongs she helped them commit and fix their wayward moral compasses.

As Frankie continues to walk along to the hectic flashing of the overhead lights she truly starts to wonder why Happy didn't kill her two years ago in Gadeston.

Did he know that she would leave and never speak of that night again – to _anyone?_Was he just hired as a scare tactic instead of an executioner?

Frankie thinks it is the latter. Aside from the fact her father is a monster, he was actually a good father. He was a devoted family man who cut up bodies in his basement and ran a ruthless organized crime syndicate in Boston's North Shore.

It would be much more his style to just scare her. Frankie does have a sliver of a doubt that her intuition is wrong - that he'd kill his own daughter, but it is barely enough of a feeling to even register. Plus – her father does have connections to SAMBOS, the Boston charter of the Sons of Anarchy and he has been known to trade work for product. The sort of deal where you literally trade someone's life for drugs or guns – for the value that it would cost to have someone straight-up hired. And, from what Frankie understands, two years ago Happy would have been a Nomad.

Frankie's father reaching out to SAMBOS to have someone scare the shit out of her is what feels right to her when she thinks about the sequence of events. Frankie wasn't exactly low-key with her OxyContin operation towards the end. If you followed the drugs, you could follow her and her father would know that if he did _any_homework at all. There have been no more late-night intruders or dead vermin mailed her way.

Some kids are thankful to their fathers for getting them a new car; Frankie's grateful that her dad just had someone break into her house, hold a knife to her throat and scare the shit out of her instead of kill her.

About halfway to her destination, Frankie stops in her track, staring down at the ground as she tries to remember how she got here.

She blinks slowly, trying to divine an answer at least.

She hopes she didn't drive – but after a moment of considering all possible routes of action she _could_have taken that driving was her most likely mode of transportation.

"Oh my fuckin' god." She mumbles to herself, the hand not braced against the wall covering her face, trying to cover how humiliatingly embarrassed she feels knowing that she is this drunk and she drove – so drunk that she can't even remember a car ride that happened five minutes ago. For the past few weeks she has been drinking way too much, yet again. Knowing she could never completely give up all alcohol – not with her deep admiration for the finest vintages, Frankie moderated herself to never more than three glasses of wine in a sitting with a strict no-can-do policy for hard liquor.

It kept her from doing stupid things like this – putting lives not her own at risk.

Remembering another very familiar situation has brought her to Brown's, Frankie takes in a deep breath – silently making a promise to whatever God there may that she is not going to go back to how she was; she vows to change yet again. Last time it took Frankie inadvertently killing seventy-three people to realize she was doing something wrong – that drinking and snorting anything she wanted along with an illicit business only ends in deaths. She won't be that person she was again.

And that is exactly the sort of motivation that sparks the fire in her belly.

Or it could be all the wine.

She is shit-faced, after all.

Frankie pushes on, still having to rely on the wall to figure out which one of the three she sees is the right one.

The spins are a bitch – _another _reason why Frankie stopped drinking. There is nothing worse in the world than the feeling that you're that little ball on the roulette wheel. That poor, poor little ball. Frankie feels for it, she truly does.

As Frankie approaches her door and fumbles to get the key correctly into the padlock, though, she can't help but be wholly aware of just how lethal knowledge of the Sons keeps proving to be. For fuck's sake - they kill their own for revealing knowledge on this matter. Frankie questions her sanity as she yanks up on the heavy door, the jarring sound of clanging metal bouncing around the close quarters so loud that it rings about in her head like church bells. If the Sons kill their own for even threatening to bring the information Frankie has into daylight – for digging up the one skeleton Clay wants buried, they – _Happy_, will surely have no problem putting a bullet in her skull like he was one tiny curling motion of his index finger away from the day before yesterday.

And the twisting feeling in her stomach telling her to turn around only hardens her resolve to dissolve. Their moral depravity has reached new lows that even Frankie had not seen within her family's syndicate – something Frankie is regrettably partially responsible for, which is why simply blackmailing the Sons of Anarchy into forgetting about her OxyContin recipe will not suffice. No, just simply making them back off from this one matter is far too little far too late. What the club needs is a shift in mentality.

It needs a coup.

And Frankie knows just how to start a revolution…

Sucking in one corner of her mouth, Frankie gazes upon the room, her large hazel eyes struggling to adjust amidst the chaotically flickering lights bolted to the ceiling, Frankie realizes that this just might take longer than originally thought.

There are forty-three boxes crammed in the tiny room with no windows that smells like dust. Some of the boxes have nothing but copies of paperwork from other boxes in them, and nothing is organized. They're just stacked wherever she put them down. Each box looking just as brown and just as square as the last.

Labeling all the boxes is just something Frankie never got around to. Getting the boxes organized and labeled has been on her _to-do_ list for a year, though. It's the thought that counts.

Damning her own procrastinating ways and _swearing _to do something about this mess _eventually_, Frankie braces one palm against the door-jam for balance as she bends up each leg to remove her heels before she dives into the disorderly mountain of files.

* * *

><p>The bright sun has risen high in a sky compromised of many clouds looking like pulled apart cotton – wispy with just the bare hints of a pale blue sky sticking through translucent streaks in the white by the time a sober Frankie emerges from Brown's Storage, a thick dark green folder under her arm and a fierce look of determination on her face as she walks with a classy <em>click-clack <em>across the asphalt to her Charger.

She places the folder on her passenger's seat then lights up a cigarette for no other reason than a calming pat on her own back for successfully sifting through the thousands of pages that she did. Because her Charger is strictly a non-smoking automobile (she spent _way _too much money fixing the interior just to have some careless cigarette cherry ruin it), Frankie leans against the trunk of her car as she casually smokes on a Marlboro No.27.

Having just spent the past six-hours either kneeling or sitting with her legs crossed as her eyes roamed over each and every inch of ink-and-paper, Frankie looks more than disheveled. Her dress is wrinkled, her ankles have started to swell from being constrained by such towering stiletto heels for too long, her hair is frizzy, falling out of her pony-tail and her make-up is smudged – a rather prominent streak of black running from her left eye at a downward curve towards her chin that she has yet to notice. She must look like a hooker because while she stands there smoking, minding her own business and praying for a coffee to magically appear in her hand, Mr. Petrosian comes out from the office – or rather, he _waddles_ out from the tiny cubicle-esque office. A gust of wind picks up, catching his horrendous comb-over normally held to his head with two whole cans of hairspray in the breeze so that the long, stiff portion sticks straight up on his head like a shark's fin.

Frankie watches him from the corner of his eye, curious as to why he's walking over to her – standing by the only other car in the parking lot aside from a 1978 Cadillac four spaces away from Frankie's black Charger that is presumably his.

As soon as Mr. Petrosian nears Frankie, he waves a chubby arm at her and smiles – showing crooked yellowed teeth.

Frankie tries not to grimace and reveal just how nauseating he actually smells, especially with one arm raised. It's like she's in a locker room for the entire NBA and someone just burnt a steak to a blackened chip.

"Hey there baby girl," He wheezes, out of breath from walking a mere fifty feet – the slimy smile never leaving his face, "How much for your time?" He asks.

"I'm not a hooker." Frankie says dryly, favoring to be laconic in times like this, as she takes a drag.

"No, no. Of course not – you are _escort_, very nice." He winks.

One of Frankie's high-arched eyebrow cock high, dangerous as the cocking of a gun as she stares at him solely from the corner of her hazel eyes – refusing to look him straight-on.

With her jaw clenched tight, desperately trying not to snap at this man because her patience is in short supply after being in a room smaller than her closer for half the night, "I'm _not _an escort."

Yet Mr. Petrosian, the fat waddling penguin with a God awful combover doesn't seem to get it, "Whatever you say, baby – How much for one hour?" He asks, reaching out a fat hand with chubby little finger being strangled by too many gold rings – so much so that his fingers are damn near plum in colour.

Quickly, before he can lay one god damn finger on her, Frankie jerks her right knee up, connecting the hard joint directly with his gonads with as much force as she can muster. He lets out a loud 'oomph' as the air is forced from his lungs when he doubles over. He is able to remain standing, clutching to his aching loins, for only a few moments before he collapses onto the pavement. He tries to say something, cussing at her in broken Armenian as he curls on his side against the scalding hot black top, both hands cupped over his aching genitals.

Cigarette bobbing between two clamped lips caked with the remainders of last night's dark berry lipstick, Frankie looks down to the man with a faint shaking of her head – much in the way normally accompanied by an eye roll as a condescending mother asks her child _Are __you __really __that __stupid?_

"You're wicked fucking creepy." Frankie mumbles down at him, mostly talking to herself because he couldn't possibly hear her over the harsh words he stutters to say. She takes one last drag from her No.27 then throws it down at the pavement – not bothering to stub out the smoldering ember with nothing to catch flame aside from perhaps Mr. Petrosian's highly flammable comb-over. She slides into the driver's seat, eyes immediately drawn to the file the second she opens the door - Mr. Petrosian's nasty-sounding words he manages to shout through the pain becoming part of the background noise just like the far away call of birds while she takes another moment to consider what she's about to do.

How one of the founding members of the Sons died was never really any of her business but she's making it her business because she knows doing so is the one thing that will reveal Clay for the scumbag he is. Frankie knows this is the only way for the Sons to see him high on a malevolent pedestal just like she does; she knows the only way to get the collective minds of the Sons away from the paydays Oxy brings about is to do this – she knows this is the only way to resume the Sons of Anarchy to their previous glory, the same glory that they all speak so highly of with a twinkle in their eyes as they reminisce on times not long past but in a different life entirely.

Back when they were still the good guys.

Deciding that the first cigarette just didn't calm her nerves enough, Frankie lights up another one before peeling out of the parking lot and heading towards the outskirts of Charming - heading towards the one person who will listen to her and try to save the club that he once called his, the club he loved but had to part with after they killed his wife when she was about to do exactly what Frankie is about to do.

Jax.

Frankie didn't even think about it until now but Jax does not even know yet that Tara had found out that Clay had John Teller killed. He still thinks her death was a horrible accident… Just like his father.

Frankie second-guesses herself the entire hour-long drive to his house. Not only is she about to tell a man that his father was murdered. Not only is she going to tell him Clay, his step-father, was the one who hired someone to run over JT with a semi.

On top of that already hard-to-handle information, she's also going to be telling a man that his wife, that the mother of his children, didn't die in a drunk-driving accident like he was told.

It is not something she wants to do – not even by the furthest stretch of meaning. She feels nothing but dread and trepidation as she walks up the wide stone pathway to his dark red front door.

Out of all the Sons with anarchy in their spirits and on their tongues, Jax is a close favourite next to rowdy Chibs and her stranger. He's always been so nice to her. Jax is the only one who ever called her by her name – mostly because _Doc _was always a name meant for his wife. He was always nice to her, showed her nothing but appreciation for all the times she helped them in times of need.

Frankie doesn't want to do this. She would rather have sex with Mr. Petrosian than do this.

However, she knows that she _has_to do this. No matter how much she questions the outcome of this particular series of events about to launch, the fact that she _has_ to do this does not escape her. She's not praying for a coup to start just so the Sons don't pester her for Oxy, that action committed by the Sons of Anarchy only proves the one thing that Frankie cannot be witness too. She morally can't sit back and be content with being ignorant - just letting things happen as they fall like she used to… Like she used to with her father. She can't let any more innocent lives be taken; she can't let a tyrant named Clay reign supreme.

This is her chance to do what she never did back in Boston. This is her chance to stand up for what she believes in and change something for the better, save some lives in the process instead of always destroying them.

So, with a heavy heart, Frankie rings the doorbell. Soon after the door opens and Jax appears – none too thrilled that Frankie is standing on his porch before he even had time to have his first cup of coffee.

"What are you doin' here?" Jax asks.

Frankie hands over the file, "I really need to talk to you."

Confusion wrinkling Jax's normally smooth brow, he looks down at the dark green file in his hands stuffed with papers, the semi-organized mess of over fifty pages.

Dark bags under his blue eyes from a long-lasting lack of sleep, Jax looks up at her after inspecting the outside of the file simply marked with 'Sons of Anarchy', "What's this about?" Voice tense, he asks.

Frankie swallows, finding much to her dismay that her throat is extremely dry, "It's about your dad…. and Tara."

* * *

><p>Jax looks up from the folder spread out on the table in front of him, licking his dry lips as he tries to remember how to form a cohesive sentence from the incoherent jumble of thoughts floating around in his mind. There are so many reports, so many records with highlighted sections. Frankie spent her time compiling the file to the point of overkill. There is simply too much information in front of him for Jax to process all at once. Each passage highlighted in neon pink began to look exactly the same as the last until Jax wading through the information only halfway through.<p>

His internal struggle for words is palpable, at least to Frankie who sits across the table from him – uncomfortable and anxious as she can't quite find the words to say either. All the information doesn't form a much more cohesive picture for her, even after reading it over at least a dozen times – twice alone before she worked up the nerve to knock on Jax's door this morning.

"What does all this mean?" Jax asks quietly, pulling a cigarette from the open pack between them. He lights it up silently inside cupped hands, leaning back into the chair and slouching low as he stares at the open page in front of him – a photograph taken in 1993 of a bloody tractor-trailer and a mess of blood on the asphalt.

Frankie shifts anxiously in her seat, still not settled into the wooden chair – still trying to not feel like the shittiest person in the world because of the horrible news she's breaking to the man that was once Jax Teller.

He didn't handle loosing Tara well. He just sort of… closed himself off from everyone after the funeral.

Frankie wonders how he's been doing – temporarily distracted from the question at hand by how tired Jax looks. But it's more than Jax just looking tired… he almost looks… sickly, especially under the unnatural lighting in his kitchen. He's thinner and far more gaunt – probably living off a steady diet of ramen noodles.

It takes Jax snapping a finger in front of Frankie's face to bring her crashing back to reality.

"Right.. umm.." she takes in a deep breath, hazel eyes downcast as she figures out the best way to say that Clay killed Jax's father and wife. But she can find no way to sugar coat the truth – there is no pretense grand enough in the entire English language to make this sound any better. She releases the deep breath through pursed lips and looks up, deciding the only course of action to take is brutal honesty. Happy would be so proud.

Frankie runs a finger over the hem of her dress, her fingers reaching for the closest thing to fiddle with now that her nerves are officially starting to get the best of her, "I don't know how to say this, Jax and I wish I didn't have to," the sincerity with which she speaks is only further reinforced by the saddened look on her face and the gentle wavering of her voice, "but Clay needs to go. You know as well as I do how dangerous that man is and he's got your club wrapped around his little finger – they're all doe-eyed little deer just going around blindly following him, doing _whatever_ he wants and that will never bring any good and-"

"_Frankie.__"_ Jax cuts her off, almost growling as his glare stops her dead in her tracks, just like a deer caught in the headlights.

Wide-eyed and mouth agape, "What?" Frankie asks.

Rubbing his throbbing temple, "Get to the point." Jax urges.

Still looking like a startled doe, Frankie nods, "Well… Clay is responsible for everything. Your father, John Teller, wanted to get out of business with the Irish and stop running guns – Clay couldn't have that, so he hired Alan Percy to drive that truck on the same day that your father was riding up North to make the final arrangements for his trip to Ireland-" Frankie stops, noticing how tightly Jax's jaw is clenched and how white his knuckles have become as he makes a fist with his hand not holding his cigarette, digging the shit out of his palms with his fingernails.

"And Tara, too? Did Clay have Tara killed?" Jax asks. There is no mistaking it, this time his words are low and hostile – the perfect growl.

"All the evidence is there, you just have to look through everything with a microscope and do a little critical thinking. There are cash deposits that showed up in Alan Percy's bank accounts, each of them one to two days after he would receive a call on his home phone from the payphone by the shop. And just before Percy deposited the money, there was always a large sum of money that… _disappeared_ from Clay's finances. He must have not been too concerned with-" Frankie catches the glare from Jax and jumps to her next point, "There's no direct proof that he had Tara killed, it's all circumstantial but there's no denying that there's a connection… I had gone to the clubhouse one day to pick up my bag that I had left there and when I went into the clubhouse it was empty, but I heard Clay talking on the phone in the chapel. He was arguing with someone about a note, saying that he didn't write it and then he said that he couldn't risk this coming out and to make sure that the rat bitch got killed, but to make it look like an accident… and then the next day… " Her words slowly shift into a whisper with each new sign of distress on Jax's face until Frankie is merely mouthing the words _she __died_.

Jax blinks, looking down to the cigarette that has burned down to the filter – short enough to now nip at his fingers. He lets it burn, staring at the smoldering ash intensely, "I'm gonna fuck_ing_ kill him."

"I want to help."

Jax looks up at Frankie who is visibly shocked by her own admission. She had been thinking it something fierce but had not intended to say anything aloud.

Jax finally snuffs the cigarette – a glistening spot of burnt flesh between his index and middle finger catching the light as he does so. He then leans back into the chair again, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he stares off at the wall behind Frankie for a brief moment as he gets caught up in the rip-tide of his thoughts.

Jax looks at Frankie with purpose, leaning over the table as if to keep their conversation hidden from open ears, "Do you still have any connects? If I need outside help, I can't be going through the club's people."

Frankie sighs an exhale of cloudy tobacco smoke, completely understanding of Jax's position but not wanting to admit there is still one detail of her life she has managed to keep secret, "I have _one_. But he's a long-shot."

"Who?" Jax asks.

Frankie looks him straight in the eye, nibbling on the very corner of her lip for a very pregnant pause, "My brother." She finally says.

Jax is obviously surprised – not as much as he was when she first showed up at his door, but surprised none-the-less, "Which one?" Jax asks, knowing that she has seven brothers that he knows of – the seven that work for her family business. In truth, Frankie has eight siblings. She's the fifth child and only girl that her father and mother have, though.

"Junior – you might know him as Arkham… It's funny, he got that nickname because everyone thinks he's bat-shit crazy… but he's not. He's actually the smartest person I know." Frankie says fondly – missing her brother a great deal in this current situation. He always knows the exact thing to do and if he were here now, no doubt he would know the exact intricate steps needed to be danced along to in order for everything to work out favorably. God, she misses him. She misses him so much.

She misses everyone.

Going to take a drag from the cigarette clamped loosely between two ringed fingers, Frankie sadly finds that the cigarette has burned itself out – forcing her to relight the piece of FSC annoyance that is a modern cigarette. She gets it lit on her second try, quickly taking a relaxing inhale of full bodied smoke. Her hazel eyes briefly pass over the papers spread out between her and Jax, quickly reminding her of the severity of her current reality. She forces her attention back upon the blond man who has slouched so low in his chair across from her that his nose is almost under the table.

"So," She starts, flicking the ashes from her cigarette over a yellowed glass ashtray, "are we gonna end Clay or what?"

"Clay is gonna die, Frankie – but you don't want anything to do with it."

"Yes I do." She says quickly – a little too quick to be the entire truth. While Frankie may be apprehensive about assassinating Clay her gut is practically screaming at her to do this. It's enough to make her believe her own words over her nagging conscience and more than enough to convince Jax that Frankie is the only friend he's got right now.

It's not like he's a Son anymore. He took his exit bow to look after his boys who desperately needed him when their mother was taken from them, even though Jax didn't know how to handle the sudden death either.

The two share a look from across the round table in Jax's kitchen, silently making a binding contract stronger than any blood oath right then and there to bury Clay come hell or high water.

So far, phase one of Frankie's scheme has been completed. She still has to make a conscious effort to be the devil on his shoulder, nudging Jax back towards the club. It is not enough for Clay to mysteriously wind up in some grave out in the middle of the Mohave – that alone does not mend the club's cracks.

It certainly helps, though.

The Sons of Anarchy need Jax back and it is the second part of Frankie's plan to convince Jax that the club he supposedly walked away from free-and-clear needs him back. Even though Jax fails his fair share of the time, his heart is always in the right place.

Unlike Clay. Whether or not that man even has a heart remains to be a mystery.

Jax can pull back the curtain, reveal the truth to the entire club and then he can retake his rightful place. Something that Frankie is going to make damn sure of.

* * *

><p>Apologies for any typos or grammatical errors - with 12,000 words in this chapter I did my best to skim through everything but to be honest I'm just not the best editor unless a red squiggly appears ;)<p>

Please review :)


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